On This Day in 1993, How the Dutch-Trained American Proved His World Cup Worth in a Victory Over Iceland
The run to Mexico City in July had given way to a harsh August reality. Three weeks after Cle Kooiman's dramatic winner had sent them to the Azteca Stadium, the United States returned from their Gold Cup triumph carrying both celebration and humiliation. The 4-0 final defeat to Mexico had stripped away illusions about World Cup readiness, but provided something more valuable: clarity about the work that still needed to be done.
American soccer found itself trapped in a familiar paradox. Bruce Murray, the most capped player in national team history, had just been released and signed with English First Division side Millwall—a testament to both his quality and the limitations of domestic development. The message was unmistakable: America's homegrown talent remained insufficient for World Cup ambitions.
Bora Milutinovic understood this better than anyone. His transformation of the national team had come through systematic integration of European-based Americans and dual nationals. The Mission Viejo training center buzzed with activity, but everyone knew that the players who would determine World Cup fate trained in stadiums from Amsterdam to Stuttgart.
The upcoming friendlies against Iceland and Norway represented more than preparation—they were auditions for World Cup roster spots that remained frustratingly undefined. Milutinovic had retreated from his promise to name his final 22 in September, instead choosing to keep players motivated amid uncertainty.
In Reykjavik's crisp air on August 31, the Americans took the field knowing every moment would be measured against World Cup standards. The most intriguing selection was Earnie Stewart, earning just his third start in twelve appearances. The Willem II striker had spent his international career as a super-substitute. Still, his goal against Germany in the U.S. Cup had raised questions about whether he deserved a starting role.
Iceland asserted early control, creating a dangerous chance in the 12th minute when Runar Kristinsson broke through alone against Brad Friedel. The moment crystallized international soccer's unforgiving nature—one lapse and months of preparation could collapse. Friedel's response separated World Cup goalkeepers from domestic players. Sliding right, he smothered the shot from eight yards, then denied the rebound from 20 yards.
"When you're playing on the road, you have to make the big saves early," Friedel explained. "If an opponent gets a goal early at home, they usually can put the game in the bag."
The Americans found rhythm through Mike Sorber's disciplined midfield play, which allowed Thomas Dooley to dictate the tempo. For 86 minutes, Iceland's organization frustrated American attacks while occasional counters kept Friedel alert—precisely the grinding football that World Cup preparation demanded. Then, in the 87th minute, a breakthrough arrived through tactical awareness and individual brilliance. Alexi Lalas, finding himself near midfield, struck a pass with casual confidence. Stewart began one of what Lalas called his "patented, curving, spinning Dutch runs"—intelligent movement that separated European-trained players from their American counterparts.
"It's one of those situations where I can just close my eyes and Earnie will run it. He did all the work," Lalas reflected.
The goal demonstrated both technical precision and tactical intelligence. Stewart's run created separation, but the finish required composure that comes only from training where such moments determine careers. The ball found the net with three minutes remaining—the kind of late winner that builds psychological strength for challenges ahead. The victory represented more than a win in a meaningless friendly. For Stewart, it provided compelling evidence of World Cup worthiness, transforming speculation into confident expectation. For the broader American project, it validated the integration of European-based players with domestic talent.
Most importantly, the match demonstrated that lessons learned in defeat could be translated into a disciplined victory. The Mexican humiliation had revealed the gulf that remained, but Iceland showed progress was possible—that the World Cup might offer opportunities for achievement rather than mere survival. Standing in Reykjavik, three minutes from victory, the Americans sensed something fundamental had shifted. They were no longer hoping to avoid embarrassment—they were beginning to believe they might actually compete for something meaningful. The transformation of American soccer continued, one late winner at a time.
