It is more than 20 years since the film version of The Ballroom of Romance created a short-lived vogue for the phrase: "Will we go into the field, Bridie?"
The ballrooms, already on their last legs then, have disappeared since. But one of the paradoxes of the intervening period is the continued importance of the field in Irish courtship rituals. And increasingly of one field in particular.
The most tension-filled incident in Croke Park last Sunday was not, of course, provided by the football. It was a marriage proposal from a Mayo supporter to his girlfiend, relayed via the stadium's big screen at half-time. For those of us behind the canal-end goal, the frisson was added to by the discovery that the love-birds were sitting a few rows to our rear.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but some of us were secretly hoping she would say no. It might have compensated for the drama that was missing from the game. Better still would be if she asked for time to think about it, thereby adding a bit of much-needed suspense to the second half.
The big screen could have broadcast regular updates. "She's ringing her best friend," it could have told us five minutes in, as Kerry stretched their lead. "Now she's talking to her mother", and so on. Since the proposal had been shared with 82,000 people (plus the listeners of Today FM's Ray Darcy Show, who were in on the plot), maybe the question could have been thrown out to the audience at the end, for a show of hands.
As with events on the pitch, however, the verdict was soon obvious. A half-bottle of champagne was promptly passed up through the crowd, apparently donated by other Mayo fans who had no use for it. By then the happiness of the young couple was rippling around the stadium like a Mexican wave.
This was not the first time Croke Park has witnessed a marriage proposal. I recall one at the International Rules series a couple of years back, when an Australian romantic also popped the question via the screen. But there were only 60,000 at that game, so it was a relatively private matter.
An even more private matter was the one that took place on the pitch in September 2002 between a pair of amorous twenty-somethings. It was the day of the All-Ireland hurling final, an event that often features positional switches in the middle of the park. Unfortunately, these ones occurred at 2am, when the couple were caught (in the act, apparently) by gardaí on night duty. The event was not recorded on the big screen.
It's hard to pinpoint when exactly Croke Park and the GAA became sexy. There was a time when it only seemed to have that effect on Dublin supporters, who were occasionally wont to tear their clothes off and run across the pitch into the loving embrace of a steward.
But the transformation was complete by last Sunday, when Micheal Ó Muircheartaigh performed the GAA's new anthem - a rap version of The Morning Dew - live at half-time, accompanied by throbbing bodhráns and a quartet of Riverdancers in football strips. Even the Artane Band, a link back to the Ireland where dancers kept their hands by their sides, got caught up in the mood, including a "samba" number in their pre-match programme.
Meanwhile the bar has been raised for marriage proposals, and I sense that Croker's big-screen will see more of this kind of thing. The next logical step will be civil wedding ceremonies on the pitch at half-time. If the decline of the church continues, the GAA is ideally positioned to provide the ritual that people still need.
Already, one of the most enjoyable rituals in Irish life is invasion of the Croke Park pitch. The players may hate it and the groundsmen too, but it remains deeply popular with fans. There may be a therapeutic aspect to it, because the playing surface seems to tingle with electricity after a big game, like the air after a storm.
In any case, masters of ceremony that they are, the pitch authorities have turned the annual invasion into a classic tease, first doing everything they can to prevent it, until their resolve gradually weakens and they succumb to the inevitable.
After the game, stewards now ring the ground, holding up plastic security fencing to deter people from encroaching. The more enthusiastic fans breach these flimsy defences early. Others try to seduce the stewards with those famous, honeyed words: "Ah, go on". Every now and then, there is a rush through the barrier at some part of the ground, increasing the frustration of those held back elsewhere. Finally, when the players have left the pitch and a critical mass of supporters has entered, the stadium PA broadcasts the magic words: "Plan B in operation".
This is the moment of surrender, when stewards give up all resistance, and facilitate safe entrance into the holy of holies. The crowd surges through. At first it's the younger, more vigorous supporters. Then the urge spreads. Soon, even the more mature fans are exchanging coy glances and asking: "Will we go into the field, Bridie?"