Who would ever have thought that this rugby thing would get so serious between us? For years the attraction was a decidedly one-way thing as the game fluttered its manly eyelashes and wiggled its oversized thighs in our direction only to be greeted with studied indifference.

We had no interest in commitment and were not afraid to say so. But now, after last Saturday, the entire relationship between us has changed. We're not in love yet, but let's just say we have exchanged phone numbers.

In the past things were a lot cooler. If our paths crossed at all it was only for the occasional raucous night at Ravenhill during that winter of Ulster's European Cup run that we shared together. But each of us knew where we stood. It was the sporting equivalent of a quick dalliance out behind the bike sheds. Nothing too heavy.

Now, after one exhilarating Saturday afternoon of emotion and tension our relationship has moved on to a higher level. This was rugby, but possibly not as we had known it before.

Two men have been responsible for bringing us together. One, David Humphreys, is a quietly commanding figure, the kind of man your mother likes. The second, Keith Wood, is the kind of man your granny likes even more. Together, Humphreys and Wood are the matchmakers of Irish rugby. They could make the game attractive to anyone, even the most hardened of begrudgers.

Humphreys fascinates like few other figures in contemporary Irish sport and yet it is all but impossible to decide why that might be. He is clean-cut to the point of being almost squeaky. He is extremely well-educated, Oxbridge followed by qualification as a solicitor.

He is unfailingly polite when it comes to presenting a public face to the media, without ever appearing to give a scintilla of himself away. Were it not for his talent as a rugby player, David Humphreys would not be one of life's stand-out people.

But it is those innate rugby gifts that set him apart. Throughout his career, he is now 30, Humphreys has consistently walked a quivering tight-rope. His talents were never really in dispute, but he appears to have been dogged by underlying rumblings about his application and suitability for the big occasion.

Even in the run-up to last Saturday's international, the media focus appeared to be primarily fixed on the recent internationals in which he under-performed, rather than on the way in which he pulled the strings for Ulster's European Cup win two years ago and continues to direct operations for his province with an authority no one else on this island can match. This was a man, don't forget, who has proved himself capable of playing every trump card.

Match-saving tackles, European semi-final winning tries, beating Wasps practically by himself. And yet the doubts lingered.

Despite all the available evidence, Humphreys was in danger of being cast in the collective consciousness as rugby's equivalent of a Mark Kennedy or a Jason Sherlock, the kind of player you just love to watch and enjoy but not someone you can rely on to pull you out of a hole.

Such fanciful notions should now be consigned to history. For the hour or so he was on the field last Saturday, David Humphreys was quite simply compelling. Not everything went his way, but that too is part of the appeal.

The missed kicks at goal in the first half seemed like looming harbingers of doom but they were more than eclipsed by the masterful way in which Ireland's outhalf imposed himself on the game and did as much as he could to shape it in his own image. Humphreys' ability to ride the waves that inevitably accompanied those unsuccessful kicks was an indication of the other great gifts he brings to the table, steeliness and unbreakable courage.

It was clear, even to this desperately untutored rugby eye, that he gave a masterful display of tactical awareness allied to some sumptuous positional kicking. This is not a place where you would normally expect to find sympathy for anyone in an English jersey, but even we were moved to have a whip-round at half-time for poor Ian Balshaw so that he could afford some counselling after the desperately torrid afternoon he endured at the hands of Humphreys' boot.

And while his outhalf was playing the part of male romantic lead, Wood was doing his utmost as best supporting actor to steal every scene.The torrent of analysis of Wood's try still continues. But from this non-rugby perspective, the most interesting thing about it was it was all so obviously a training ground move that was imported to the biggest match of the year with seamless ease.

In any sport, against any opposition, that development of the germ of an idea into a fully-fledged and successfully executed move would be source of great satisfaction. Against England in their Grand Slam game, it produces boundless joy. But just in case this becomes an unfettered rugby love-in, it is still worth remembering that one afternoon of torrid emotion does not in itself melt away all of the old reservations. We're still at the getting-to-know-you stage and there are so many things that we would love to change about you.

Ireland's Call. A rule book that is understood fully only by the chosen few. That forced male bonding thing. Supporters calling players either by their first names or nicknames as if you have known them all your life. An incurable obsession with the turning up of collars - jerseys, casual shirts, jackets, sheepskin coats, no piece of male or female clothing is immune. Figure-hugging shorts. The Schools' Cup. Drinking games.

Still, it's early days. In these first flushes of exuberance it is probably best to concentrate on the good parts and worry about changing everything we don't like a bit later. Where it goes from here is anybody's guess. In the safe knowledge that the developing relationship will not entail beating England every weekend, it is more than likely that the GAA's welcoming embrace will still have a place in our heart.

Dreary club rugby games on dank Saturday afternoons are probably still a step too far but we have at least promised to see each other again. Keep your eye out for a new posh frock, you never know how this might develop.