Sideline Cut: It is fascinating how the public perception of a team can be so terribly altered over the course of one match.

More disappointing than Ireland's narrow loss against France a week ago was the immediate and heavy sensation that took hold while the Lansdowne Road crowd petered away into Dublin suburbia.

It was like a childhood day at the beach cut short by the sudden arrival of black clouds and the unmistakable message of heavy raindrops. The Fanta went flat, the day out was ruined and nobody could say for sure when the next one would be.

It is the law of sport that any team with several successful campaigns behind can, if caught on a leaden day by a more mercurial and fleet-footed adversary, take on a suddenly aged and lumbering profile. It happened in the tail end of the Jack Charlton era, on a fine summer's day in 1995 when the fey Austrian striker Toni Polster hot-knifed his way through an Irish soccer team whose heroes had, for almost a decade, been the last word in dependability and against-the-odds glory.

Polster was a fascination that stuck in many a mind, not just because of his disturbing resemblance to David Hasselhoff but also because of the distinct lack of respect - or care - he exhibited in dismantling a national team that had taken on a near religious significance in this country. It was not so much the 3-1 defeat that mattered that afternoon as the unavoidable realisation whatever intangible magic Charlton and that bunch once possessed had been prized away for good.

A summer previous, when the 1994 World Cup led to the last great Irish evacuation to America, Eamon Dunphy had been arguing, not implausibly, about an Irish soccer team that ought to be competing with medals in mind. The legendary defeat of Italy in the Giants Stadium gave substance to that viewpoint. But 12 months on, that day had already acquired a wistful tint and Charlton's reign ended on a sodden night at Anfield when a young Patrick Kluivert demonstrated with bored superiority that Ireland's time had come and gone.

In a very different country and in hugely different circumstances, this Ireland rugby team had deservedly captured the affection of the country in general and, over five years, given the sense it was building towards achieving something special.

Their point of origin arguably dates back to the debilitating 1999 World Cup defeat in Lens against Argentina, a period when the public had muted hopes and less interest in Irish rugby. It was a painstaking process, symbolised by the farewell by Keith Wood after the 2003 World Cup and the lordly ascent of Brian O'Driscoll.

It has taken in the painful and contentious departure of Warren Gatland and the methodical, cool and sure-handed stewardship of Eddie O'Sullivan. It has brought about winter defeats of Australia, of South Africa, two consecutive raids on world champions England and a first Triple Crown in 20 years. And yet the abiding judgment on this team seems already set in stone: that a decent, honourable team, reasonably talented and with one singular genius, had fallen just short in the game that would define its legacy.

With England on their knees and France supposedly in the throes of schizophrenia, this was supposed to be the season Ireland seized the kingdom. The fact the team's advancement through the first three games had been solid and brave rather than exhilarating was ignored and there was the presumption France, a country that feels culturally obliged to beat Ireland, were "in" on some grand plan to facilitate an Irish victory by being sulky and disinterested.

Instead - and deep down it is probable that everyone expected as much - they were scintillating. For all the criticism about Bernard Laporte chopping and changing his team, one truth was overlooked. He did so because he could. Stripped of his first-choice and then his second-choice centre, Monsieur Laporte had the luxury of capping the never-to-be-forgotten Benoit Baby, who proceeded to run riot in an all too French way. That alone pin-pointed the difference between the two nations.

Stripped of his own first-choice centre Gordon D'Arcy, and an alternative in Shane Horgan, O'Sullivan had to opt for Kevin Maggs, a strong, experienced and fine ball player but nonetheless one who seems to have been answering Ireland's call since about 1935. There was no Irish Babóg, wet behind the ears but brimful of attitude and ideas, for O'Sullivan to draw upon.

The same was true down the ranks. Ireland's rugby team has drawn succour from its settled nature but one of the reasons we have come to know this team, these players, so well, is that the stable from which it is drawn is so small.

France will almost certainly win another Grand Slam within the next couple of years and might well get it together for the next World Cup. Such magnificence they see as their birthright, their duty, the rule rather than the exception.

In Ireland, such total domination, as exemplified by the lone splendour of Ireland's 1948 Grand-Slam-winning team, always has and always will be the exception.

In the professional era, with big countries like England and France churning out young players and the passion for rugby undimmed in nations like New Zealand and South Africa, Ireland must use all its resources perfectly, game after game. Sooner or later, the contemporary Irish machine had to creak.

In hindsight, maybe it is better that it occurred in the penultimate match of the season against France than in Cardiff.

It is not so long ago Nick Popplewell fell to his knees in tears because he had experienced what it felt like to win a game oan Irish journey. It is not so long ago since the idea of an Irish team scoring a try in France was fantastical and preposterous. It is not so long ago since it felt like Keith Wood was a man trapped in the wrong era and perhaps in the wrong nation.

It is not so long ago since commentators from the across water used to write and speak of the Irish rugby effort with fond condescension, which was much more galling than outright disrespect.

All that has disappeared. But who is to say it won't return? This current team must soon break up and who is to say we will ever get so close again?

Today, an Ireland team plays in Wales for the Triple Crown. That is no bad moment in sport. That the Welsh public and her rugby lovers are trying to reconnect with an idealised past, to communicate with the dead spirit of the valleys through the adventures of a young, modern professional team, just adds to the spice.

It casts Ireland back into a more conventional role, the rebellious, noisy travelling band entering Cardiff, once the unrivalled kingdom of rugby union, in the hope of preventing a year of untouchable supremacy by Wales. Wales, being Wales, expect to complete their Grand Slam having reached this point.

Ireland, stung and disappointed, are fully confident they can deny. It may not be quite the showdown the Irish public wanted, as it is not the long-dreamed-of quest for a perfect championship.

But once the singing fills the stadium today and the contest begins, it should hold enough intrigue and drama and ancient parallels to turn a week of disappointment on its head. Perhaps if this season shows us anything, it will be that winning it all is a notion that doesn't fit all that comfortably with the Irish psyche and that Triple Crown days are not to be taken lightly.