On This Day in 1993, the Defender Scored the Golden Goal in Extra Time to Defeat Costa Rica at the Gold Cup
The path to redemption wound through the stifling heat of Dallas, where the United States stood one victory away from a chance to silence the doubters who had dismissed American soccer as a contradiction in terms. Three group stage victories had established the foundation: Eric Wynalda's artistry against Jamaica, Thomas Dooley's leadership in the comeback against Panama, and Alexi Lalas's unlikely heroics against Honduras. But foundations, no matter how solid, mean nothing without the courage to build upon them when the stakes reach their highest point.
At the Cotton Bowl for the semifinal, the Americans faced Costa Rica. It would determine whether their World Cup preparation would continue on the grandest stage imaginable—Mexico City's Azteca Stadium, where 120,000 voices would create an atmosphere unlike anything in the sporting world. The opponent carried its own burden of expectation and disappointment. Costa Rica arrived as a team in transition, having endured the humiliation of missing the 1994 World Cup after cycling through five coaches in their failed qualifying campaign. Only two players from Bora Milutinovic's miraculous 1990 World Cup squad remained, making this semifinal a clash between his past and present, between what he had once achieved and what he hoped to build.
For Costa Rica, this tournament represented more than regional competition—it was a chance to prove that their World Cup failure was an aberration rather than a reflection of their true capabilities. Under new coach Alvaro Grant MacDonald, they had shown remarkable resilience in the group stage, earning a draw against Mexico despite the hosts' overwhelming superiority against other opponents. The Ticos possessed the tactical discipline and defensive organization that had made them so dangerous three years earlier. Still, they lacked the creative spark that had carried them to glory in Italy. The Americans, meanwhile, faced their own challenges. A growing injury list had depleted their depth, with key players like Dooley nursing ankle problems and Tab Ramos dealing with knee issues. The medical report read like a battlefield casualty list, but Milutinovic's philosophy had always been to find solutions rather than excuses.
The July 21 match began with the Americans asserting their authority through possession and territorial dominance. Wave after wave of attacks crashed against Costa Rica's disciplined defensive wall, with Wynalda and Roy Wegerle probing for weaknesses that seemed impossible to find. The statistics told the story of American superiority—19 shots to Costa Rica's 5, 12 corner kicks to 3—but soccer's cruel mathematics often mock such advantages. Costa Rica's goalkeeper Eric Lonnis had emerged as the match's most influential figure, making save after save with the calm precision of a man who understood that his team's hopes rested entirely on his shoulders.
The second half became a symphony of frustration for the Americans. Their dominance grew more pronounced, their chances more numerous, but the breakthrough remained maddeningly elusive. In the 71st minute, Wegerle's cross found Dooley with a diving header that seemed destined for the net until it struck the far post and bounced harmlessly away. Three minutes later, Wynalda found himself five yards from goal with only Lonnis to beat, but the goalkeeper's desperate dive smothered the shot that should have ended Costa Rica's resistance.
After the near-miss, Roy Meyers, the Costa Rican midfielder who would miss the final due to yellow card accumulation, seized upon American disappointment to launch a devastating counterattack. Racing past Desmond Armstrong, he found himself alone with Tony Meola, the American goalkeeper who had become the team's most reliable performer. The moment crystallized everything that could go wrong with American soccer—one mistake, one lapse in concentration, and months of preparation could evaporate in seconds. But salvation arrived in the form of Lalas, the red-haired defender whose rock-star persona had made him the face of American soccer's transformation. Sprinting across the penalty, Lalas arrived just as Meyers prepared to shoot. The tackle was perfect—clean, decisive, and timely. Had he missed, a penalty kick would likely have ended American hopes.
"It is important as a defender to have the attitude that it is very personal if they score on you," Lalas reflected afterward. "My job is to cover on that side, and I took it very personally that he was going in on a breakaway. I had to stop him. I did."
As regulation time expired with the score still scoreless, the Americans faced a new test: sudden-death overtime, where one mistake or one moment of magic would determine their World Cup preparation's next chapter. The format was unusual for international soccer, but the Americans had grown comfortable with extraordinary circumstances. Their entire journey had been about defying expectations, from the investment in Mission Viejo to the systematic approach that had transformed their competitive culture. Now, in the 104th minute, that transformation would produce its most unlikely hero yet.
Cle Kooiman had spent the evening doing what defenders do—marking opponents, clearing crosses, and providing the stability that allowed others to create. But in Milutinovic's system, defenders were encouraged to join attacks when opportunities arose, and as Wegerle worked the ball down the right flank, Kooiman sensed his moment. The cross came at waist height, perfectly weighted for a player positioned seven yards from goal. For most defenders, the moment would have demanded a simple header or a careful placement. Kooiman chose audacity over caution.
"Playing defense, I don't get many opportunities to score goals," he explained. "In our system, Bora lets us push forward sometimes. This was an opportunity where I just decided to go up front. From there, I just shut my eyes and hit the ball."
The volley was a thing of beauty—struck with the right foot, rising over Lonnis's desperate dive, and nestling into the net with the inevitability of destiny. The goal was Kooiman's first for his country in eight appearances, making him the most unlikely hero of the tournament's most crucial moment. The celebration revealed the magnitude of what had just occurred. Kooiman, the newest member of the national team, had sent the United States to Mexico City's Azteca Stadium, where 120,000 Mexican fans would create an atmosphere unlike anything in the sporting world. For the defender who played his club soccer with Cruz Azul in that very stadium, the moment carried special significance.
"It is very difficult to explain how one feels when something happens like that," Kooiman said. "Mexico City is my hometown. I've played before 120,000 people before, and it's the most incredible feeling I've had in life."
The victory extended the Americans' perfect record in Gold Cup competition to 9-0 over two tournaments, but more importantly, it validated their transformation from hopeful amateurs to legitimate contenders. They had dominated a quality opponent, overcome adversity, and produced match-winning moments when the stakes reached their highest point. But the party would prove short-lived. Three days later, in the cauldron of Azteca Stadium, the Americans' World Cup preparation would face its ultimate test against a Mexican team that had dominated the tournament with 28 goals in five games. The 4-0 defeat was comprehensive, devastating, and ultimately instructive. Mexico's revenge for their 1991 Gold Cup final loss was complete, delivered in front of 120,000 delirious fans who had waited two years for this moment.
The defeat stung, but it also served as a valuable lesson. The Americans had learned what it meant to compete at the highest level, to handle pressure in the world's most intimidating stadium, and to face opposition that combined technical brilliance with tactical sophistication. The loss would serve as motivation in the months ahead, a reminder that World Cup success would require more than regional dominance. Standing on the Azteca pitch after the final whistle, Lalas stretched out his arms and tried to comprehend what he had just experienced. "Look at it," he said, still processing the power of 120,000 people who had never tired of doing the wave. "Unless you've played here before, you just don't know what it's like."
The Americans had tasted victory and defeat on soccer's grandest stages, learned lessons that no amount of training could teach, and proven that their transformation was real, even if it remained incomplete. The road the World Cup still stretched ahead, but it no longer seemed impossible to find success. In the space of one tournament, one overtime goal, and one humbling defeat, the United States had announced its intention to be more than just hosts of the 1994 World Cup. They intended to compete, to learn, and perhaps—just perhaps—to achieve something that would transform American soccer forever.