He wore his whites for his mother.
Arms akimbo, cheeks flushed, he stood his ground to tremendous applause. The cricketing whites: a snug jersey - number 07 - pulled taut over his tightly muscled torso, pads, gloves. The helmet snapped firmly on to his head, he bent slightly at the knees, stomping the ground with his right leg, bat in hand, slowly swinging it, testing, as if poised for flight.
The applause rent the air, as his bat connected with the hapless ball for his maiden six runs.
His mother, watching from the heavens, would be proud.