Sideline Cut: Republic of Ireland soccer is much like a family theatre troupe; the chief actors do not really move on, they just assume different roles. There was an element of the gathering of the chieftains about the Arctic and boisterous Lansdowne Road on Wednesday night. Given that competitive soccer can often be a dreary proposition, the attention and emotion the visit of the Swedes for a mere friendly game generated said a lot about the state of the oft-maligned garrison game in this country.

There, deep in the stands, was Mick McCarthy, the silver-haired, plain-talking Barnsley man who, above all Irish people, can endorse Behan's old adage that where most countries have a national identity, Ireland has a national psychosis.

Smaller men than McCarthy would have opted for exile after the experience he went through, would have vowed never to set foot in Dublin Airport again. But Mick was there, among the fans whose loyalties he so grievously split, bellowing the words of Amhrán na bhFiann, just like he used to when he was Captain Fantastic, just like he used to when he was the manager.

Mick was there because this was a special night: he was there to honour a protege, a hoary, sleeves-up defender much like himself. He was there because this was Stan's First Night.

And McCarthy probably enjoyed as much as anyone the sight of Robbie Keane and this suddenly fearless young band of brothers mobbing Mick Byrne, the talisman of yesteryear. It was a masterly touch by Staunton, giving the popular Rubs Man a phone call - a perfect nod to the good old days, and a statement, too, that he was not afraid to refer to that period when the Republic of Ireland were a new and unpredictable force in the affairs of international soccer.

True, this was only a friendly, and given that the Swedes have given the world Saab and Ikea, they were probably paralysed with fear and disapproval at the state of Lansdowne Road, which on nights like Wednesday can feel as if it is being run by a 40-watt bulb with a poltergeist operating the tannoy system.

It was only a friendly game, and as such its significance evaporated in the freezing night air even as it happened. The Swedes have a World Cup in Germany to look forward to and were not about to ruin their tournaments by wrecking a knee ligament on the torn-up Lansdowne turf or by slipping on the remnants of Gavin Henson's fake tan.

And maybe the night was charmed. Sweden could and perhaps should have taken a lead early on, and might have forced a different complexion on the evening had they done so. Staunton and Bobby Robson could not have banked on a 3-0 scoreline, and certainly could not have dreamt the substitute Liam Miller would have chosen this night to blast a goal that was as entertaining as it was brilliant, a Roy of the Rovers wallop that warmed the hearts of everyone watching.

As a match, it may be of only limited importance. But there is a possibility that, as an occasion, Wednesday night will be remembered as an illuminating date for Irish soccer. Because the radiant enthusiasm and joy with which the patchwork collection of old hands and young guns played felt kind of rare. It looked like something special was going on.

Professional soccer seems such a joyless world now that it is often hard to discern any real sense of caring among the remote young millionaires who make up its stellar cast. But on Wednesday night, there was something humble about the eagerness and enthusiasm with which Staunton's young team took to the task. And it might be naïve to think so, but it looked as if the Boss, the Gaffer, the Stopper of Bucks, had managed to tap into that most elusive of qualities, team spirit, immediately.

Perhaps it was a happy accident that Jack Charlton discovered that an international team that created something of a family atmosphere and worked for a collective cause would have an edge over most other countries. In the symbolic recall for Mick Byrne, Staunton has made it plain he hopes to foster that kind of atmosphere once again.

And for a man whose public pronouncements have been cautious and rehearsed and bread and butter for the impersonators, his reflex actions have not been so bad. When he was pointedly asked if he would be disappointed if Robbie Keane was discovered out having pints five nights before a big international, Staunton's deadpan Drogheda reply - "I'd be disappointed if he wasn't" - was smart and it defused a subject that had been blown out of proportion in the last days of Brian Kerr's regime.

It was also a kind of F You, a biting little retort that sent out the message that such incidents were nobody else's business.

And the appointment of Keane as captain was a perfect decision. It was regarded as bold only because it steered away from the predictable, and it is an honour that has fallen on the Spurs man at precisely the right time in his career. There was a glow about Keane on Wednesday night, and up in the commentary box Niall Quinn sat stooped with the boys of Sky and could scarcely contain his glee at the confidence and exhilaration with which his old team were playing. Quinn was bright and informative and tended to slip into a deep, husky Old Sea Dog's growl when he was excited, like Robert Shaw in Jaws. But it was obvious that he was thrilled about this Lansdowne night.

And with Alex Ferguson in Dublin speaking dreamily of Roy Keane, his lost general, there was a sense of reunion about the soccer week.

Afterwards, Damien Duff, who tortured the Swedes with a game that was pure street delight, had the sensitivity and class not to be drawn into comparisons with those haunted weeks that characterised the end of the Brian Kerr era.

But for a lack of the small element of luck which any manager has a right to expect, the Staunton/Robson era would still be the stuff of John Delaney's wild dreams and Kerr would be talking the talk for Germany 2006. And Kerr's time started brightly too, with a string of encouraging friendly results before the campaign began to sour in the hot climes of Israel.

The task ahead of Staunton and Robson is forbidding. Visits to Germany, to the Czech Republic and to Slovakia are sufficiently treacherous to founder the high spirits on any good ship. And although they are biding their silence, there are plenty of sceptics just waiting for the fall. Then the boots will go flying in.

But the flip side is an Irish team playing in that kind of mood in front of a raucous Lansdowne crowd will not be pushovers for any country, regardless of the class they retain.

And that is the one nagging feeling going into Ireland's next great campaign. Lansdowne is such an evocative, intimidating wreck of a place. It may not be pretty, but it is special. Recreating that sense of claustrophobia and invincible will in the great stadium on Jones's Road will be the next trick that Steve Staunton has to perform.