The GAA milked the big switch-on with admirable aplomb, and Dublin deserved to be part of this big moment in family history, writes Tom Humphries

There was light and there was sweetness. The illumination was constant and novel and the sweetness faded as the night wore on. By the time Ryan McMenamin of Tyrone had got sent off in injury-time we were getting what we had paid for. A tough, exciting league game in February. Surprisingly, it was sufficient unto the occasion.

It was a big moment in family history and a small moment in our national story. Croke Park looked as radiant as a summer bride. Outside, the spotlights played on the great curved walls, and as the multitudes hurried up the steps they were drawn on by the gospel choir who, like Bono, still hadn't found what they were looking for.

The GAA have found what their looking for though. The lights, the yellow football, the splendid stadium - it all transformed the experience of watching a game, conferred it all with some sort of rock 'n' roll glamour.

And, as an event, as a celebration of having arrived at a threshold, this was wonderful and right. The next time a GAA crowd fills Croke Park an emotional and symbolic Rubicon will have been crossed. On Saturday night the association marched to the banks with confidence and pride. In the coming months there's nothing to fear and much to enjoy.

The big screens showed lingering, curiously apposite shots of the splendid grapefruit moon which hung over Croke Park. We got The Sawdoctors, who were splendid if a little lost in the vastness, but a corner of the brain yearned for Van the Man to barrel out and growl that it was a marvellous night for a moondance.

It was.

The GAA should have at least one Moondance in Croker every year.

To crest the back stairs and to see the famous pitch bathed in dim light down below was quite something, a tingling exercise in theatrical anticipation, like being in the audience for a premiere.

The GAA milked the big switch-on with admirable aplomb, a posse of the great and the good coming to the middle of the field surrounded by international flags and young faces to stage a countdown.

And then, one by one, around the horseshoe roof the lights came on and even the most hardened, seen-it-all-before adults could scarce forbear to cheer. Croke Park - the new Croke Park, because it was built piecemeal - has never really had a proper inauguration. This was it, a full house, filled with wonder and a sense of fun.

At half-time there was a schools' game played between the representatives of 18 countries from Cumann na mBunscoil in the capital. If there was a danger of that being condescending, it was overcome by the game itself wherein the participants happily played the first international soccer in Croke Park whenever the ball hit the deck.

We got stepovers and dragbacks, dribbles and half-volleys. There was no admonitory fork of lightning from the gods.

There were those fretful types who would have preferred if Dublin and Tyrone had gone about their business in the more modest confines of Parnell Park. The peculiar argument was put forward that just because thousands of Dublin fans will turn up to an event in Croker but not a league match in Parnell Park that Dublin were somehow being exploited on Saturday night.

Croke Park deserved a night like Saturday, and Dublin, as the Manchester United of the national game (and the city as the home of the great cathedral) deserved to be part of it. There's no thrill like seeing a Dublin team bounding out into Croker in front of a full house.

There's nothing that brings the best out of a rival team either, and Tyrone, when they switched out of a mysterious early torpor, played some fine football, steering the match to a crescendo of excitement which sat well with the occasion.

The result hardly needs repeating by now. The first point under lights in Croke Park was scored by Dublin's lithe newcomer Diarmuid Connolly, but Tyrone decided at a certain stage that they would actually like to win the game rather than just be part of the ocassion. They stopped faffing around and they located their A game.

The northern defence became like the forcefield of old, repelling anyone who wanted to get within scoring range, and Dublin turned over a distressing amount of ball from then on.

At the other end of the field, a Tyrone attack, with Brian Dooher, Brian McGuigan and Stephen O'Neill absent, still had sufficient nous for running up a winning total and an impressive amount of wides.

For Dublin, the loss of a another decent lead in Croke Park is likely to have the Blues back on the therapist's couch for a session or two. "We have to pick up the pieces," said Pillar Caffrey soberly.

Tyrone drove home just as soberly with their two points in the bag. Making little pieces of history has become a craft for them in recent years.

They roll on inexorably.