Following the Irish rugby side's games against France and England in the last few months, these historic days are mounting up. This one, though, was draped in the clothes of a different character from the outset.

Unlike on the rugby occasions, the roars that greeted the Irish team when they entered the arena yesterday were provisional on performance forthcoming. Pride and passion are currently franchised out to the rugby fraternity. Association football has, by comparison, Steve Staunton urging everybody to come on lads, and Roy Keane saying will ye get up the yard.

Roy wasn't in attendance yesterday, although there was a sighting under the Hogan Stand of a man full of sound and fury selling prawn sandwiches by the dozen.

Strangely for the occasion, but not the match, the stadium showed some empty spaces.

The Welsh held Hill 16 and festooned it in red. They were obliged to park their bums on seats, which is not the Hill as we know it. The pitch itself was compressed even more than for the rugby, and in the shadow of Hogan, two rectangles were marked out in which the besuited managers were corralled. It's not just the fans that have to suffer under increased security and restricted access in this code.

With the occasion offering little in the way of occasion, the spotlight was on Staunton, a man struggling under the burden of a weight he was never cut out to carry. When the Taoiseach feels it necessary to urge everybody to back the team, something must be wrong. These things should be taken for granted, but nothing can be in the prevailing Irish football environment. The most depressing prospect prematch was that a public humiliation awaited the manager if the minnows of Wales escaped from the game unbeaten.

But sport's bounty is so often surprise. The cosseted millionaires came out and played with feeling. It wasn't exactly inspirational, but at least there was plenty of perspiration.

Stan patrolled his rectangle now and again. He appeared to loosen up. As the clock ticked by, he looked less and less like a beast awaiting chop-chop in the colosseum.

The fans began to sense that something less than disastrous may be afoot. Somebody sang a song. Somebody tried to start up a chorus of 'Ole, Ole'. It didn't get off the ground. Presumably, somebody else tore that somebody limb from limb for such a dastardly crime.

Then, seven minutes before half-time, amazing grace was bestowed on Croker. Ireland scored. His name is Ireland, Stephen Ireland, a son of Cork, that corner of the country damned by the FAI in the gospel according to Roy.

When the teams emerged for the second-half, the shadows had lengthened across the pitch and the dregs of winter handed down a sharp chill.

The fare on view rarely rose above passable, but at least it didn't dip to the depths of recent encounters.

A Mexican wave was born on the hour, rippling around the stadium, as if we were on top of the world, trashing the samba dancing Welsh 1-0.

Everything is relative. To borrow a dictum from Irish rugby of yesteryear, the situation may be desperate, but it is not serious.

The final whistle brought relief and some joy from the Irish bench. For Stan, it was a case of Waterloo postponed.

Well, for four days at any rate.

And Croke Park continues its season of glasnost. At this rate the Irish cricket team will be in situ there before the summer is out. Howzat!