Sideline Cut/Keith Duggan: Oh, to be a fly on the, eh, bench for Brian Kerr's first day. I'll bet he is rehearsing it already, his first talk, his Gettysburg Address. Declarations of the talents and virtues of B Kerr, Soccer Man, have been flung hot and heavy around the streets of Dublin over the past few days.

His maiden appearance at the Shelbourne Hotel has acquired the instant gloss of legend, provoking scenes that matched the equally astonishing appearance at Knock for pure worship and hysteria.

Ordinarily, such a trumpeting welcome would quickly change into direct pressure to deliver but the outpouring of joy at Kerr's appointment was as much tied up in the past as the future.

I think Irish soccer people see Kerr's ascension as not only a vindication of the man's own ability but also a posthumous tribute to the legions of unsung Irish soccer coaches who persevered with a little less thanks.

I know nothing of Kerr beyond what his many admirers will happily testify to; in short, that he knows his stuff, he is an academic of the game, he has a Calvinist work-ethic and his boundless energy and affable charisma give him a unique edge.

His irresistible elevation to the post of Irish manager - a role that now seems to carry a sense of weight and responsibility that leaves it hovering between Pope and Taoiseach in the pecking order - makes Kerr a tantalising prospect.

It would be unfair to classify him as the "accidental manager" but so many extraordinary events conspired to propel him into the spotlight. Equally, it would be stretching it to maintain that this role, this moment, was Kerr's destiny. But there is a definite aura about the Kerr story, with its classically humble story line, the comically poignant fable of his one and only medal won with Bluebell United and the man's inimitable line in good old Dublinese bluster.

What makes his arrival so interesting is the nature of the protests emanating from the older school of Irish soccer heroes, the players who made it across the water and the second-generation Paddies that we came to adore during the Charlton era. The implication that Kerr won't be able to cut it at the highest level is fascinating on many levels.

On the surface, it is undeniably intriguing to think of Mr Grassroots himself turning up at the Irish camp with his bag of balls to take on the youngsters he reared to European championship titles only to find them reeking of Gucci and new money.

The suggestion that Kerr won't have the - what, bank balance? Fake Tudor façade? Account with Versace? - to give him the necessary cachet to deal with today's superstars indirectly insults the entire Irish squad. Could young players be callow enough to resent being told what to do, and how and why, by someone who never played the game at their level? Possibly, though only fleetingly.

Niall Quinn's great story about taking a few young Irish soccer kids on apprenticeship at Sunderland for a pint with Norman Whiteside tells you all you need to know about the mind-set of young professionals. Quinn thought the teenagers would be delighted to be sitting with such an iconic figure. Halfway through the fun, one of the lads turns and politely asks Whiteside if he ever played any football himself.

Young players aren't terribly interested in the past and don't particularly care what anybody else has achieved. Why should they? Just to survive, they have to be selfish and self-focused to the point of narcissism. The new kids on the Irish block, those on the verge of breaking through, would jump through hoops of fire for Kerr if it meant getting a start - not because he is Brian Kerr but because he is the man in charge.

AND it is negative and presumptuous in the extreme to insinuate that our best exports, our budding global stars have for some reason grown disdainful of their roots. Those underage European medals remain the only significant winners' tokens that the current crop of young Irish stars has won.

Behind the complaints about Kerr's inadequacies lies a fear of being found out. From the Charlton era to this moment, domestic Irish soccer had nothing to do with Irish international soccer. It wasn't even a poor relation; the two didn't meet.

With the incessant migration across the water by 14-year-old Irish lads willing to eke out a lonely few years to chase the dream of the big time, it was inevitable the domestic game would develop an inferiority complex.

England held the money, the glory and the future. Irish soccer was the backwater where failed starlets returned murmuring to anyone who would suffer listening that they could have been contenders.

The vast majority of professional footballers who represented Ireland over the past two decades put nothing into the Irish game beyond their minutes spent in the green shirts. Although their devotion to the Irish international cause has almost always been beyond reproach their understanding and care for the domestic game has been minimal. It is not in their culture; they are products of the English game and as such cannot see Ireland's soccer horizon stretching beyond Lansdowne Road.

So Kerr's arrival, out of the blue, is a dangerous thing. If he can succeed without tales of an apprenticeship spent licking Arnold Muhren's boots until they shone and without stories about drinking lager from the FA Cup, then what would that say about everything held as gospel by the men who stalk the landscape of English soccer?

It would say that maybe the gulf between their world and the lesser orbits is not as distant as they would like to think. And that maybe an outsider, someone without the crass credentials of material success, could expose the anodyne rhetoric we hear day-in day-out from the kings of the British game.

If Kerr is successful in the Ireland job, the implications could be far reaching. The English managerial game is littered with old pros, many of whom are being exposed as dead wood. George Bernard Shaw's cheap observation about those who can do, those who can't teach, carries genuine validity when it comes to sport. Those who excel are immersed in themselves from a very young age. Those who struggle but love the sport choose to immerse themselves in others.

Brian Kerr may fail. The teams we play against until 2006 may just score more goals than we do. If that happens, it is unlikely the latest Irish manager will be treated any more softly than his predecessor.

But equally, the likeable Dub might just shatter the long-held illusion. In his ideas, his application and his observations, he might just present himself as an uncomfortable comparison to names and reputations much bigger than his own.

He is out on the tightrope now and there is no turning back. But he is 49 years young and he hasn't put a foot wrong yet.