The United States of America are going to the 2014 World Cup. In the end, it was never in doubt. And in the end, how they booked their ticket to Brazil was perfect, poetic. The Americans clinched at home, in a storied, claustrophobic stadium in front of a raucous, unapologetically and overwhelmingly American crowd, against Mexico, their storied, most hated rivals. When the final whistle blew, even the result, dripping with mystique, was perfect. Dos a cero. Two-nil. A walkabout, really. Less than an hour later, Honduras drew Panama, and the USMNT was through. Fans cheered, sang, cried. Players chugged Bud, sprayed champagne, hugged, danced, grabbed more Bud. There was excitement, pride, triumph following U.S. Soccer's most recent CONCACAF conquest in which the team earned the right to play against the world's best for the seventh straight time. But it was also perfect because beneath it all, there was the palpable sense of relief.