On This Day in 1989, a Scoreless Draw Leaves World Cup Dreams Hanging by a Thread
The mathematics had seemed simple enough after that humid afternoon in Guatemala City. Beat El Salvador at home, then travel to Trinidad and Tobago, needing only a draw to end 39 years of World Cup exile. The United States had controlled possession against the Guatemalans on October 8, generated 16 shots, and walked away with a frustrating scoreless tie that left them one point behind Trinidad and Tobago in the qualifying standings.
On November 5, 1989, the Americans would face the same eliminated El Salvador side they had defeated 1-0 in Honduras seven weeks earlier. This time, the venue would be St. Louis Soccer Park in Fenton, Missouri, where 8,500 fans would gather, expecting their team to dispatch a winless opponent and set up a winner-take-all finale in Port of Spain. Costa Rica had already clinched the region's first World Cup berth with 11 points. The second spot belonged to whoever could seize it from the wreckage of this qualifying campaign.
The pre-match atmosphere carried an undercurrent of unease. Rumors swirled that Trinidad and Tobago, possibly even Costa Rica, had offered financial incentives to the Salvadoran players—as much as $1,750 per player, according to U.S. midfielder Eric Eichmann—to put forth their best effort against the Americans. Coach Bob Gansler dismissed the speculation as good storytelling but acknowledged that such whispers surface before every consequential match. "We've still got to go out and take charge of our own destiny," he said.
More concerning than phantom bribes was the absence of Hugo Perez. The creative midfielder who had scored the winning goal against these same Salvadorans in September remained in France, nursing a torn groin muscle suffered while playing for his club team, Red Star. Alongside him on the sideline was Peter Vermes, battling chicken pox in the Netherlands. The Americans would have to break their 146-minute scoreless streak without their most dangerous attacking threat.
El Salvador arrived in markedly different circumstances than the pampered Americans. After a seven-hour layover in Houston, the Salvadorans landed late Saturday night and stuffed four players into each hotel room. "We don't have the money like the Americans," explained their coach, George Dojeinovski, who fielded nine players from Firpo, El Salvador's leading club team.
The first half unfolded with a familiar pattern: American dominance yielded no rewards. Playing with the wind at their backs, the United States outshot El Salvador 7-1 and earned seven corner kicks, yet repeatedly crashed against the rocks of Carlos Rivera's goalkeeping and their own imprecision. Bruce Murray generated several headers toward the goal, one saved brilliantly by Rivera, another sailing wide. Steve Trittschuh, pushing forward from his defensive position, twice tested Rivera with headers that found only the goalkeeper's hands. Tab Ramos whipped multiple corner kicks into the penalty area, searching for Trittschuh's runs from deep, but the final touch remained elusive.
The second half brought stiffening resistance as El Salvador absorbed the American pressure with disciplined defending and calculated time-wasting. Playing into the wind, the United States created fewer opportunities. Ramos fired wide early in the half. Gansler made desperate substitutions—Frank Klopas for Desmond Armstrong in the 57th minute, Jim Gabarra for Bliss in the 83rd—but neither injection altered the game's stubborn mathematics.
Even a late numerical advantage couldn't break the deadlock. Jose Gamez received a red card for kicking Klopas with two minutes remaining, but El Salvador's packed defensive shape held firm. The Salvadorans had already drawn a yellow card for deliberately kicking the ball into the stands, a transparent delaying tactic that nonetheless achieved its purpose.
When the final whistle confirmed the scoreless draw, captain Mike Windischmann raised his arms in desperation, a gesture mirrored by most of the 8,500 spectators who had arrived expecting celebration and departed in stunned silence. The Americans had now gone 208 minutes without finding the net. Their last goal belonged to the absent Perez, a memory from a different match, a different time when hope felt more substantial.
The single point left both teams tied at nine points, but Trinidad and Tobago held the crucial advantage in goal differential: plus-3 to the Americans' plus-2. The implications were absolute. A draw in Port of Spain would send Trinidad to their first World Cup on the tiebreaker. The United States would need to win or watch from home.
Murray's post-match assessment was brutally honest. "We were all trying to do our own thing instead of playing together. I gave my best effort, but if I was the coach, I would have pulled myself out. I played terrible—and I want to emphasize that." Trittschuh tried to find optimism in the defensive solidity—his unit had now posted three consecutive clean sheets—but acknowledged the obvious: "The defense is holding up its end of the bargain and the offense is creating chances. We're just unlucky finishing."
The Salvadorans, meanwhile, departed satisfied with their spoiler's role. Even Dojeinovski, whose makeshift squad had been outshot 12-5 and conceded 13 corner kicks, felt vindicated: "I don't think the Americans were flat. They played the way they can play, and El Salvador played the right way against them." Gansler maintained his measured composure, though the frustration seeped through: "Obviously, we did not create enough chances. As I have said before, it takes us a few more opportunities than some teams to score. So we have to keep creating."
On November 19, the United States would travel to Port of Spain for its appointment with destiny. No safety net. No margin for error. Win or spend another four years wondering what might have been. The path to Italy had narrowed to a single match, on hostile ground, against an opponent who could advance with a draw while the Americans needed nothing less than victory. Brian Bliss, the midfielder who had articulated the building momentum before this match, now faced the prospect of watching it all collapse. "If we don't qualify," he had said earlier in the week, "it will set soccer in this country back by five years."
On this gray November afternoon in suburban St. Louis, as 8,500 deflated fans filed toward the exits, American soccer's World Cup dreams survived—but barely. The scoreless draw had transformed a promising scenario into a desperate gamble. One match remained. One chance. One goal, finally, could be enough.