The hatred is back in USA vs. Mexico

GLENDALE -- Mexican fans walked out of University of Phoenix Stadium in full voice, making the concourses echo with chants of “Me-hi-co.” Others played drums or blew horns, while many danced and skipped out into the night.

Fortunately for Klinsmann, his first match was against Mexico. Even the most ardent Klinsmann fans didn’t envision him getting a result against El Tri and for much of the match, it didn’t look like they would. Mexico led 1-0, and it could have been 5-0. But Brek Shea found Robbie Rogers late in the match for an equalizer that earned the Americans a draw.

Not that anyone noticed.

In a rivalry marked by its intensity and hate, which plays out in the stands as much as it does on the field, the U.S. and Mexico could only fill half of Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia, PA. It didn’t feel like a rivalry match. Mexican fans, expecting a win and uninterested in a meaningless friendly, didn’t bother chanting while the cheers of U.S. supporters echoed off the tens of thousands of empty seats.

But the U.S. fans cheered. They had conquered the big, bad Mexicans by walking out with a draw — one that felt like a win.

Meanwhile, Mexico had fallen apart. They almost failed to qualify for the World Cup, going through four managers in 2013 and only getting a ticket to Brazil because of the U.S., who saved them with a win over Panama on the final matchday.

The rivalry was competitive again. It mattered. People cared.

Fans began arriving at University of Phoenix Stadium five hours before the match. Mariachi bands spurred Mexican dance parties in the parking lots, while Americans chanted “dos a cero” at anyone in a green shirt. Bouts of wind and rain didn’t scare off fans — in fact, it just led to more drinking, which led to more dancing, chanting and taunting.

More than 59,000 fans made their way into the stadium, with Mexican supporters outnumbering USMNT fans 4-to-1. Every chant from the U.S. fans was countered by a louder one from the Mexican fans. U.S. fans held up a giant banner that read “De nada, Mexico,” a reminder that their neighbors will forever owe them for their trip to Brazil. There were as many unused seats as there was three years ago in Philadelphia, but that was because half of the crowd stood for the entirety of the match.

The buzz was back. The rivalry was back.

When the U.S. went in front 2-0, “dos a cero” chants filled the stadium as the Mexicans sat stunned. But by the end of the match, after a pair of Mexico goals, the Americans had been drowned out. In the waning minutes, as both teams searched for a winner, it was impossible to make out the various chants and songs, which coalesced into a constant drone of noise that lasted until the final whistle.

While Mexican fans left the stadium to party, U.S. fans left in disgust.

“The fucking ref robbed us. TWICE,” yelled one face-painted American as a friend kicked a concrete support.

The U.S. didn’t just believe they could beat Mexico — they believed they would, and that the only reason that they didn’t was the referee. It was a far cry from Philadelphia, when a fortunate draw sent them into song and dance.

The Americans have come a long way. Mexico have too, albeit in the opposite direction, and with the change in dynamic came the revival of one of the world’s best rivalries. It came with a full stadium, drunk fans falling down stairs, competing chants, derogatory songs and most of all, hatred -- beautiful, rivalry-sustaining hatred.