The United States Has Given Us Permission to Dream
The United States is through to the knockout rounds and, for the first time in generations, believing doesn't feel foolish.
Sometimes I think I’m dreaming.
There are moments in life where I have to slap myself in the face or run cool water over my hands to remind myself that what I’m experiencing is real life. Yesterday was one of those instances.
As the United States wrapped up a wonderful 2-0 victory over Australia in thunderous Seattle, locking up a spot in the knockout rounds of this World Cup while also putting itself in pole position to take home Group D, I genuinely thought I was dreaming. That feeling only intensified later in the day when Paraguay knocked off Turkey 1-0, officially handing the group crown to the Americans and sending me into a state of disbelief that I’m not sure I’ve entirely recovered from.
Why?
Because this isn’t supposed to happen.
Never in my life — heck, never in your life either — has the United States Men’s National Team won two straight games at a World Cup. The last time it happened was in 1930, when the team finished third, still the best placement in this nation’s history. A lot of stuff was different back then. The Great Depression had just dawned. The Empire State Building hadn’t been built yet. The average American probably didn’t even know what soccer was.
And now here we are.
I don’t care that some people — I’m looking at you, England — are trying to throw this accomplishment away because it came against “subpar competition.” Frankly, there is no such thing as subpar competition for the United States. For years I’ve been told that a 1-1 draw against Jamaica is a good result. We all knew that was baloney to the highest degree, but to some extent it worked in tempering our expectations. Every time this team stumbled, we were told to lower our standards. Every time it failed to live up to its potential, we were reminded that soccer simply isn’t our thing. Deep down, though, I don’t think any of us truly believed that.
The American psyche is a stubborn thing. We grow up believing we can do anything. We put men on the moon. We invented the airplane. We won two world wars. We looked at hockey — Canada’s game — and said, “Yeah, we’d like a piece of that too.” We created basketball from scratch just because we were bored and turned the gridiron into an obsession that borders on religion. Of course we think we can become great at soccer. To admit otherwise would almost feel un-American.
The problem with that line of thinking is that reality hasn’t always been kind to those dreams.
The 2018 World Cup qualifying disaster was an embarrassment that still makes me wince when I think about it. Four years later in Qatar, the United States scored three goals all tournament before the Netherlands sent us packing in the Round of 16 without much fuss. Then came the 2024 Copa America on home soil, where two lackluster performances against Panama and Uruguay ended the party before it ever really started. In other words, hope became an exhausting endeavor.
It wasn’t just that the U.S. kept losing. It was the way it lost. The timid performances were met with an endless cycle of excuses. The insistence that mediocrity was somehow progress was maddening. Fans weren’t asking for a World Cup title — all we wanted was a team that looked like it believed it could do great things.
For a while, it didn’t.
Which is why Mauricio Pochettino feels like such a revelation.
Oh, that wonderful man.
I know it’s dangerous to assign too much credit to one person, especially in a sport that flows and is as chaotic as soccer. Players win games. Managers don’t score goals. But Pochettino has given this team something it desperately lacked during the final years of the previous regime: courage.
Through two matches, the United States has looked liberated. The ball moves faster. The players are matching that tempo. Everybody seems more willing to attack, more willing to take risks and, perhaps most importantly, more willing to dream.
That change in mentality didn’t happen by accident.
“We’re American,” Pochettino apparently told his team at one point. “We don’t take s---.”
Like so many of you probably did, I burst out laughing when I first read that quote, partly because it’s hilarious to hear an Argentine manager essentially out-American every American in the country, but mostly because he’s right. That’s the attitude this team has been missing, and Pochettino was sure as heck going to instill that in his squad.
Even without Christian Pulisic, arguably the best player on the roster and undoubtedly the most prominent, the Americans galvanized themselves against a tough Australian side like never before. There was no panic or fear. Confidence was all that existed on that pitch.
To put it in one word, it was wonderful.
And that’s why I keep coming back to this idea that the World Cup is the tournament of dreams. Every nation arrives carrying its own version of hope. For Brazil, the dream is a sixth star. For England, it’s finally bringing football home. For Cape Verde, simply being here is enough to inspire an entire generation. The United States, meanwhile, falls somewhere in the middle.
Sure, winning the World Cup remains unlikely. I’m not naive enough to pretend otherwise. Spain, Argentina and France exist. There are giants in this sport that have earned the benefit of the doubt in ways America simply hasn’t. But for the first time in my life — and maybe yours too — it feels attainable.
Not probable. Not expected. Just attainable.
Maybe that’s a pipe dream. Maybe in two weeks I’m writing about a heartbreaking defeat to Belgium or some country like that and wondering why I let myself believe.
But that’s a problem for future Seth. Right now, I’m choosing hope. I’m choosing to believe that the timid, frustrating, endlessly disappointing version of American soccer is gone and that something better has taken its place. I’m choosing to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m not dreaming after all.