I’ve been watching the U.S. Men’s National Team for roughly eight years. Throughout that time period I’ve witnessed the utter disappointment and despair of missing out on the 2018 World Cup as well as countless other mediocre efforts on the largest stages of the sport. Yet there was always a glimpse of hope beyond the fog of uncertainty. It’d appear in brief moments during Gold Cups or Nations Leagues, giving fans of the United States reason to believe that one day the moment would be theirs.
Last night, that moment arrived in full force.
For 90 minutes, the red, white and blue flew around the pitch like never before. A crowd of 70,000 cheered and roared. It was magic. It was beautiful. It was ours.
This sport has never been what gets Americans hot and bothered. It takes a special kind of event to get the entire nation to turn their attention on the men or women that don the Star-Spangled Banner across their chests.
Maybe that’s because soccer has always felt like somebody else’s game. Americans have always been proud to hoist up the NFL, college football, baseball, basketball and hockey. Those are sports where we’ve carved out our own identities and wrapped them tightly around our culture. Soccer has always existed in the background like a sleeping giant. Despite what you see online, I do believe that the vast majority of Americans respect it. They’re more than happy to come out every four years and care deeply about it for a month. But for so long, the men’s national team has never quite felt like a team destined for greatness.
Until last night.
The United States didn’t squeak by Paraguay in the World Cup opener like it was some accident. It didn’t survive or get a couple of lucky bounces. It utterly dominated every moment of the contest, not letting up even when Paraguay applied a little bit of pressure. The final score read 4-1, but somehow that almost undersells what happened.
From the national anthem – which was wonderfully performed by Dan + Shay – the USMNT showed its prowess. Christian Pulisic looked like a man on a mission. Weston McKennie dictated the pace. Tyler Adams controlled everything in the midfield. Chris Richards was the man on the back line that his team needed him to be. And Folarin Balogun, the player of the match and the man of the hour, was on top of the world
.
By halftime, with the United States up 3-0 thanks to a Paraguayan own goal plus a brace from Balogun, SoFi Stadium (sorry, “Los Angeles Stadium”) felt like it was levitating. If Queen were in the building, they’d be leading the American faithful in a exhilarating rendition of “Don’t Stop Me Now.”
And then there was Gio Reyna.
Maybe no player on this roster deserved a moment like this more.
The last four years have been cruel to Reyna. Injuries robbed him of precious development time just as he appeared ready to become one of the brightest young stars in the world. The ugly fallout surrounding the 2022 World Cup and the public feud involving his family threatened to define his legacy before he ever had the chance to write it himself. As he fizzled out in Europe, every conversation about Gio Reyna became less about what he was and more about what he could’ve been.
Yet there he was, standing on the grandest stage in the sport with the world watching, waiting for his moment to come. And when it finally did, he didn’t just score – he announced himself.
The strike itself was exquisite. No, exquisite doesn’t quite do it justice. Reyna hit it with the outside of his boot, wrapping the ball around the helpless Paraguayan goalkeeper in a way that almost didn’t make sense. I could feel my jaw hitting the floor as I was watching it in real time.
I’ve watched the replay over and over again, each time convincing myself there had to be some trick to it. Perhaps it was an optical illusion of some sort.
Nope.
It was simply genius. That’s the only explanation.
And maybe that’s what made the celebration hit so hard. As Reyna’s teammates crowded around him in jubilation, it felt like we’d all collectively watched a rebirth. Not just of the USMNT, but also of Reyna. For one breathtaking moment, Gio Reyna wasn’t the kid plagued by injuries or burdened by family drama – he was just a star.
I can’t imagine a more fitting final flourish.
Last night was beautiful. From watching Mauricio Pochettino – the Tottenham Hotspur fan in me was elated to witness his style of play translate so well to the international game – transform the United States right before our eyes to seeing how ecstatic the 70,000 fans that crowded into SoFi Stadium were every time the ball hit the back of the net, everything was perfect.
Nobody can erase the feeling that swept across the nation after the final whistle had blown. Nobody can erase the looks on people’s faces when Reyna stole the show. Nobody can erase the utter joy that I feel in this moment.
For one night, soccer wasn’t somebody else’s game. It was ours.
And after eight years of watching this team stumble, tease and disappoint, I think that’s the moment I’ll remember most. Not the goals. Not the celebrations. Not even the 4-1 scoreline that will live forever in World Cup lore.
I’ll remember believing. Really believing.
Because for the first time in my life as a USMNT fan, the hope beyond the fog isn’t a distant dream anymore. It’s standing right in front of us, wrapped in red, white and blue, asking us to dream even bigger.