From a feast on Saturday to something plainer down Lansdowne way, yet something not entirely unpalatable either.

In football, everything is propaganda until a whistle blows, the human instinct always to overplay hope, exaggerate promise. This game was a sell-out, thanks to a smart commercial strategy of twinning the tickets with next Monday’s big Euro qualifier against World Cup finalists France.

But a friendly against Latvia watched through the floodlit spangles of a showery Wednesday in March?

Ordinarily, a polite apathy ripples through this calibre of fixture, yet – despite an abundance of unused seats – the giddiness was palpable. Evan Ferguson is 18, by the way. It feels important to restate that fact, if only to offer context (and sanity) to the narrative now building around this remarkable young Meath man.

A narrative we must be careful doesn’t end up simply commodifying the boy, rather than granting him the room to grow.

Now it should be said that Ferguson himself seems blissfully free of those doubts that can inhabit a young player in the early chapters of life as a professional footballer. Many find themselves wading through ungovernable worries and playing, accordingly, as if dragging lead weights.

But, already, he carries himself as if of indeterminate age, his poise, his physical presence already radiating easy maturity.

All round him last night – above his head, rumbling in the grass beneath his feet – everywhere in other words, Lansdowne resonated with the deep, deep sound of hope.

The roar just after 7.30pm when the stadium announcer confirmed “Number 19…Evan Ferguson” as a starter palpably climbed quite a few decibels higher than for any of the other Irish players.

A curious place then for someone of his tender years to be, somewhere without shade or the comforts of anonymity.

Ireland’s opening goal was an essay in spatial intelligence, Ferguson playing it wide to Matt Doherty whose sensible cut-back allowed Will Smallbone to direct a precise cross to Callum O’Dowda who scored with a diving header.

Just five minutes on the clock but, already, the desired script beginning to find expression here.

Twelve minutes later, little was missing but the smell of incense, Ferguson scoring with a tap-in at the near post, Michael Obafemi having retrieved a ball – with apparent millimetres to spare – that appeared to be going out for a corner.

Stephen Kenny turned to the stand behind him, both fists clenched. Not a single ripple on the pond.

But how do you read the competitive temperature of a contest like this, just five days before one of the biggest games these young men will ever play for their country?

Truth is, you can’t. In terms of threat, France and Latvia exist in different galaxies – and, worryingly, old troubles came crowding in upon Kenny here.

We had reached the 33rd minute when all frivolity was duly punctured by that extraordinary thunderbolt from Roberts Uldrikis, the ball knifing past Caoimhín Kelleher at an angle and pace you had to suspect couldn’t have been thwarted by human intervention.

Then a wicked deflection off Nathan Collins wrong-footed Kelleher on the stroke of half-time, the shot of Arturs Zjuzins flying in with violent purchase off the Corkman’s arm.

From an exhibition strut, Ireland – suddenly, inexplicably – found themselves merely level going in, Ferguson’s shirt pulled over his head as he walked towards the tunnel.

You could feel an unwelcome chill in the night now, Ireland again looking susceptible to shots from distance, through what comes across as a faintly ambivalent defensive press.

Within a minute of a triple Irish substitution, two of those introduced combined for the third Irish goal – Mikey Johnston firing against a post and Chiedozie Ogbene prodding home, the rebound having just evaded Ferguson.

That came in the 64th minute and less than 10 minutes later, Ferguson’s night was declared over, Kenny welcoming him to the line with an almost impassive pat on the shoulder as Troy Parrott was sent in.

It looked a wise, precautionary measure given that Ferguson had taken a knock that left him grimacing, momentarily, a little earlier and the near certainty now that he will lead the line next Monday.

Quite what this game could foretell for such a challenge was, frankly, impossible to identify. Men like Smallbone, O’Dowda and the effervescent Johnston had their moments undeniably, but Ireland don’t carry the defensive authority of a team likely to demoralise Kylian Mbappe and his superstar friends.

And that’s the concern for Kenny now, a suspicion that his hour of judgment might just come a tad sooner than is kind.

Those close to him speak of an inclination to bristle at the most moderate of criticisms, communicating the air of someone who maybe interprets more slights than exist.

To be fair, this Ireland job has a history of doing that to good people, rinsing away the ability to compartmentalise noise that matters from that which doesn’t. There is a long history of Ireland managers becoming defensive and easily antagonised.

While an authentic seam of exciting young Irish talent begins to insinuate itself into the national consciousness, you can’t but wonder will Kenny be at the helm to see it flower?

He couldn’t have asked for more difficult Euro qualifying company – and it’s clear there needs to be something tangible taken from the opening two fixtures (France at home; Greece away) to build even the flimsiest semblance of belief that his Ireland team can make it to Germany next year.

Emerge pointless from those fixtures – and, frankly, not even the sunrise talent of Evan Ferguson will save him.