On This Day in 1997, Shorthanded and Down a Man, Mission of Survival in the Azteca for the Americans
The path to France had become a tightrope stretched over an abyss. Now came the fall that everyone expected.
Tab Ramos had called it weeks earlier, with the matter-of-fact certainty of a man reading tomorrow's weather: "That game in Mexico City, when you look at all the games, you write that one down as a loss." Steve Sampson had nodded along, conceding he didn't expect a result at Estadio Azteca. The mathematics were simple and cruel—Mexico needed just one point from three matches to qualify. The Americans would arrive hobbled, depleted and facing a fortress where they had lost 17 consecutive times since 1937, outscored 69-13 across six decades of humiliation.
But Sampson had also prepared. For 16 days at Big Bear Lake, California, 6,800 feet above sea level, the Americans trained in thin air, preparing their lungs for the punishing altitude of Mexico City, which stands at 7,350 feet. When they arrived on Friday, Bora Milutinovic—the Serbian coach who had led the United States at the 1994 World Cup and now commanded Mexico—peered through his hotel window at the yellow smog blanketing the city and grinned. "It's good!" he said, squinting as fumes stung his eyes. "And I hope Sunday, it will be better for us."
By "better," he meant smoggier.
The Americans would face Mexico without four starters. Kasey Keller sat out with a broken thumb. Earnie Stewart's calf injury kept him from playing. Ramos's torn knee ligament—the same one surgically repaired the previous November—would require another operation, ending his qualifying campaign. And Claudio Reyna, the team's midfield orchestrator, served a suspension for accumulated yellow cards, a direct consequence of the Jamaica match where American arrogance had been replaced by American desperation.
Brad Friedel would start in goal. Roy Wegerle would operate alone up front. Eric Wynalda, typically a forward, shifted back to midfield in a defensive 4-5-1 formation that signaled Sampson's intentions from the opening whistle: survive, absorb, don't break. On November 2, 114,600 Mexican supporters packed into Estadio Guillermo Cañedo—a sea of green, white, and red, blaring horns and waving flags. The Americans were greeted with deafening boos. This was Mexico's temple, and the visitors had come to be sacrificed.
For thirty minutes, the match unfolded without one team dominating. Both sides created chances. The Americans defended deep but remained dangerous on the counter. In the 14th minute, Wynalda unleashed a shot from outside the penalty area that Jorge Campos, Mexico's flamboyant goalkeeper, could only parry into the path of Marcelo Balboa, who fired wide left. Then came the moment that should have sealed America's fate.
In the 32nd minute, Jeff Agoos and Pavel Pardo jostled for position at midfield. Pardo clipped Agoos from behind. Agoos raised his elbows to protect himself. Referee Javier Alberto Castrilli—known worldwide as "The Sheriff" for his quick trigger on cards—produced a red without hesitation. Agoos was gone. The Americans would play the final 58 minutes with 10 men.
It was Agoos's second disaster in as many matches. Against Jamaica, his careless pass had gifted the Reggae Boyz their equalizer. Now he was expelled, forced to watch his teammates fight a losing battle he had made immeasurably harder. "I had my back to the goal and I played the ball to Eric," Agoos explained afterward, still stunned. "Someone clipped me on the back of the leg. I put my elbows up to protect myself. Next thing I know, I got a red card. I'm shocked I got it."
Sampson reorganized immediately, shifting to a formation without a striker. John Harkes dropped from deep midfield into Agoos's role. Wegerle moved back from forward to midfield. The Americans would not attack. They would not press. They would hold the line and pray. One minute later, Thomas Dooley nearly pulled off a miracle. His 22-yard shot beat Campos cleanly, but struck the right post and bounced away. It was the closest either team would come to scoring.
The second half became a siege. Mexico poured forward, wave after wave crashing against America's defensive wall. Friedel saved shot after shot. Eddie Pope, Balboa, and Alexi Lalas blocked everything that got past him. In the 50th minute, Luis Garcia's header off a corner kick cleared the crossbar by inches. Milutinovic inserted a fourth forward at halftime, desperate to break through. Mexico attacked. The Americans absorbed. The crowd roared with each Mexican advance—and then, gradually, the roar changed.
With 21 minutes remaining, something extraordinary happened. The Mexican fans, disgusted by their team's inability to finish, began whistling derisively at their own players. They applauded American clearances. They chanted in unison: "Fuera, Bora!"—Get Out, Bora. "Ole! Ole! Ole!" they shouted—many with Mexico's colors painted on their faces—as the Americans swiped balls and blocked shots. Joe-Max Moore, battling fatigue at midfield, could barely believe it. "It was a great feeling," he said later. "When 120,000 fans switch and start cheering you on, well, that doesn't happen very often in your career."
The final whistle brought boos for Mexico and euphoria for the Americans. They had broken a 60-year losing streak in Mexico City. They had survived with 10 men for nearly an hour. They had turned Estadio Azteca into a monument to defensive resilience. "Americans dream about what is possible, not impossible," Sampson told reporters, beaming. "The players just believed they could do something special, and they proved it. We consider this a golden point."
The result clinched Mexico's World Cup berth—the 22nd nation to qualify for France. But Mexico's fans left the stadium muttering about corruption and national offense, their qualification feeling more like humiliation. Milutinovic faced a media assault that included accusations of match-fixing. "Our culture right now is very negative," he said defensively. "I know the people are very upset, but we have qualified." His job was suddenly in jeopardy.
For the Americans, the golden point meant survival. They improved to 2-5-1 (WDL) with 11 points, sitting in third place, two points ahead of El Salvador. The mathematics had shifted decisively: one victory or two draws from their final two matches would send them to France. But the complications remained. Agoos would miss the Canada match due to his red card. John Harkes, who received a yellow card in the 17th minute, would also be suspended. And Ramos's knee would require surgery, ending any hope of his return. Sampson announced that if video review confirmed Agoos had connected with an elbow, he would fine him $1,000 for unnecessary conduct.
The Americans would travel to Vancouver on November 9 to face last-place Canada, a team with just four points and no realistic chance of qualifying. A victory would almost certainly seal America's World Cup berth—especially if El Salvador failed to beat Jamaica. If not, everything would come down to November 16 at Foxboro Stadium, where El Salvador would arrive desperate and dangerous.
The path to France remained a tightrope. But the Americans had refused to fall. They had survived the Azteca with ten men, earning the respect of 114,600 Mexican fans who had arrived expecting a coronation and left chanting for their own coach's head. Sampson had written the match down as a loss. Instead, his team had delivered something far more valuable: belief that the impossible might still be possible. Seven days remained until Canada. Seven days until the Americans could finish what they had started in that suffocating Mexico City air, where even the smog had failed to choke their resolve.