It's July 1994. Two men are lounging by a hotel swimming pool in Orange County, California.

They're both part of the U.S. men's national soccer team, but it's spent weeks being

cheered on by the whole country competing in the biggest tournament on the planet, the

World Cup. After a respectable showing, they've been eliminated by the mighty Brazil,

and now here they were by the pool a bit dazed because it was all over.

We were all wondering where does our future lie? What are we going to do?

That's Erick Winelder, the team star striker. The United States plucky showing at the 94

World Cup had changed how he and his teammates were now seen. Before the tournament, only

a few American soccer players had truly been able to earn a living as professionals, but

now American players were the world's hot new fad. Many were headed overseas, to Italy,

to England. Erick would be heading back to Germany to play with a club team and become

part of a culture that actually worships soccer players. But remember, there were two

guys at that pool, Erick Winelder and Steve Simpson.

You know, Steve was our assistant coach at the time, and I had known Steve through my

collegiate experience, and I liked the guy, and I was worried about him to a certain extent.

And he looked worried because, well, because I know what my story is, I've got to get

it up plain and go back to Europe, and I wanted to know what his aspirations were. And my

question to him was, what happens to you now? His answer was, I still love coaching,

and I wanted to do that. Steve Simpson wanted to be a pro coach, really. He had less than

two years' experience as an assistant on the national team. He never had coached or even

played at the professional level, but more than that, he was American. It was ludicrous.

This is American Fiasco.

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