The Gold Cup is not the most prestigious of soccer tournaments. The
winner moves on to represent the CONCACAF region—countries from North
America, Central America, and the Caribbean—at the quadrennial
Confederations Cup, a dress rehearsal, of sorts, for the World Cup. For
many countries, the Gold Cup is primarily an opportunity for coaches to
observe young and fringe players in the hopes of strengthening their
teams for the big show.

For the United States, however, this year’s tournament took on a little
extra significance. Last November, the men’s national team struggled
through the final round of World Cup qualifying, losing in heartbreaking fashion to
Mexico and then getting thoroughly embarrassed a few days
later by Costa Rica. That left the United States at the bottom of the
region’s World Cup qualifying table. Coach Jürgen Klinsmann was fired,
and replaced by Bruce Arena, whose largely unruffled disposition sits in
contrast to a more excitable Klinsmann, and who coached the national
team for several years in the late nineties and early two-thousands. Arena was
supposed to restore the confidence of the American players, believed by
many to have dwindled during Klinsmann’s bumpy tenure.

On Wednesday, in Santa Clara, California, the U.S. faced off against
Jamaica in the Gold Cup final. The Jamaicans, dubbed the Reggae Boyz,
were the tournament’s upstarts, advancing farther than anyone expected,
thanks to talented youngsters and the magisterial performances of the
goalkeeper Andre Blake. The match remained deadlocked for most of the
first half, until the forty-fifth minute, when the veteran striker Jozy
Altidore put the U.S. ahead on a free kick from about thirty yards out.
Altidore, a longtime fixture on the national team, has struggled in
recent years to make his mark in a major tournament, thanks to recurring
hamstring injuries. But when the referee blew his whistle for the free
kick, he steadied himself, took two steps toward the ball, and struck it
with force and composure. The ball curled around a wall of four Jamaican
defenders, ascending and bending toward the left side of the goal, and
past the outstretched arms of Dwayne Miller, Jamaica’s backup
goalkeeper. (Blake was taken off the field with an injured hand in the
nineteenth minute of the game.) Altidore thumped the U.S. crest on the
left side of his jersey.

Altidore, whose parents came to the United States from Haiti, is one of
many sons of immigrants on the U.S. team. There’s Omar Gonzalez, whose
parents are from Mexico; Matt Miazga, the son of Polish immigrants;
Darlington Nagbe, born in Liberia; and Juan Agudelo, who was born in
Colombia. Watching them celebrate, I thought of the kids I had seen the
day before playing soccer at a park near my home, in Washington, D.C.
Their foreheads glistened in the afternoon sun, their brown bodies moved
with the raucous howl of their adolescent voices. With the promise of
that pluralism seemingly under siege as of late, the rejoicing of the
men’s team felt almost defiant.

Jamaica bounced back in the fiftieth minute with a splendid goal by
Je-Vaughn Watson, who had jostled his way free from the U.S. forward
Jordan Morris to volley home a corner kick. Morris looked visibly
distraught, his man having evaded his mark, but he found redemption in
the game’s closing minutes. After a cross from Gyasi Zardes bounced
around the box, Morris pounced on the ball from about sixteen yards out
and powered a shot past Miller in the goalbox to give the U.S the lead
again. Morris giddily sprinted to the sideline, where his teammates
encircled him, jumping up and down with unbridled joy.

There are tough World Cup qualifying matches to come: the team must win
a slate of contests to secure a trip to an eighth consecutive World Cup,
in Russia, in 2018. For one evening, though, regardless of the larger
significance—or insignificance—of the Gold Cup, we could celebrate a
team that looks like the country we are quickly becoming, and perhaps
the country we have always been.