There they were, across the road from the Bray Bowl, hard by the rail-line, in front of the orange bleachers.

The boys from the telly. In Bray Wanderers' ground. All bespoke and dazzling and a fashionable hour or so late.

They do things we can't do. Even the donkeys have a bag-full of tricks. They stroll around casually spinning and juggling the pristine footballs wearing the learning of the training ground lightly on their green sleeves.

They do things we can't do, but this morning they are in Bray. It's a nice little touch. Revives the old-fashioned notion of the nation having a sense of ownership with the national team. Beckham has never been to Bray. Duffer has. Beckham is the poorer for it.

"Kilbane, me granny loves ya!"

The schoolkids who have been waiting here all morning know how to twist some arsenic into a compliment. They know their Daniel O'Donnells from their boy bands. Kilbane is Daniel. Robbie Keane is something else.

"Robbeeee! Robbeeee! Robbeeee!" they chorus, and when he gives a little grin and wave there is so much screaming that you have to look again to see if there are any boys at all lurking in the precinct.

It's odd to look at them here. Tonight's game is a friendly international in March, and that means that the matrons at the football clubs of Britain are double plus taking the temperatures of the poor boys who otherwise would die for the chance to wear the green jersey. While they convalesce from the rigours of the Premiership, the green jerseys are distributed among the fresh-faced tyros.

There's a clutch of non-capped players this morning and the eye falls repeatedly on Liam Miller, whose inaugural game this should be. Miller is an unprepossessing presence among his fellow pros, but his touches draw little mumbles from the kids. If ever a guy was destined to be an icon, it's Miller.

Cork. Celtic. Manchester United. It's better than having your picture taken with Michael Collins.

There are others, too. Interesting figures. Alan Maybury, who made his debut in Olumouc all those years ago in the company of Duffer and Robbee. He looks the same tidy prospect he did then, but time has moved on. He's not at Leeds any more.

There is no chorus of Maybureeee! Leaning on the grey concrete boundary wall you can hear the accents of the Premiership, glimpse the eternal boyishness of its principles. Kendo! Duffa! Carso! Yeeeessssss! Every rippled net provokes the same Pavlovian exclamations of joy. Yesssssss!

When it's over nobody says "I'm a millionaire, get me out of here", but as the PA announces that the players will be spending five minutes at the end of training signing autographs there are some quick glances exchanged. What about "All stewards to end of match positions?" One by one, Duffer first and friendliest, the players make their way to the wall and take the proffered sheets. A little sunkissed communion of players and public.

Afterwards, back in Killiney, where the team are billeted here on the alien southside, a small transition is taking place. The old PR suits are leaving. A new PR suit has arrived. There's an end-of-term feel to the manager's press conference. Nobody tells us to switch off our mobile phones even!

Brian Kerr arrives with Kenny Cunningham. Today Brian is in a vivid green Umbro casual shirt, a gentle rebuff to those of us who always consider him the most dapper man in football.

Kenny has his arms folded across his chest and stares straight ahead. This is part of his schtick. Kenny is the straight man who delivers the odd one-liner when the opening presents itself. Brian does most of the chat.

Today the manager is relaxed. He's teasing about the team, at least about his non-disclosure of it. Tossing little bits of information to us which we gobble like ducks consuming breadcrumbs in a pond.

"It's day by day, lads," laughs Brian.

"Any debuts?"

"Not at the start."

"Was the team in the yellow at training the team?"

"Which team in yellow? We changed the bibs."

"Oh."

And he puts the bag of crumbs away.

It's not a competitive press conference. We stroke the questions about aimlessly. The stuff of friendlies.

Brian talks about the changes in the complexion of the team. The prodigies of yesterday are scarcely men yet and their heels are being snapped at by a new wave. We're lucky to have so many fresh faces about. Lucky just to have so many faces. "Some team - Scotland was it? - only had six outfield players yesterday. We were a bit better than that, weren't we Kenny?"

"Seven good ones anyway," says Kenny, lips barely moving.

The manager talks on about the limited range of vision we have about where players have to play. How will he get all those left-sided players into the team? Imagination. Don't limit the range of vision.

"I'd like us to be comfortable with more than one system. We can't be mentally rigid about 4-4-2. In other countries it's no big deal."

So will he be experimenting like a flower child tonight? No. So what's tonight all about? Objectives.

"First, that I can learn something more about the players. Second, we play well. Thirdly, we get a good result. Fourthly - I'm sure ye can make that one up."

Springtime. Friendlies. The bacon slicer's whirr nowhere to be heard. Ah.