Things got off to an early start. The alarm blared at 6.30 am.

Dillon usually hit the snooze button on school mornings, trying to squeeze in a few extra minutes in bed. But today was Saturday and he wasn’t going to school. He jumped straight out of bed and slid into the cricket whites draped over the back of a chair.

Mum had breakfast on the table as he bounded into the kitchen.

‘You’re chipper this morning,’ she said, brushing a strand of mousy brown hair from her eyes. She was of average height and a little on the plump side. Wide, friendly eyes shone from her round face, projecting a feeling of warmth.

Dillon grinned. ‘Got a good feeling about the match.’

He sat down and devoured the bacon and pancakes, which he first drowned in maple syrup. This was a get-your-own-breakfast household most mornings, which usually meant cereal for Dillon. But Mum always made something special on a match day.

Dillon was out the door by seven, in the car and being driven to Jay’s place by Dad.

Dad was tall and gangly, but with a small round belly that looked out of place. His thinning hair was a greying blond and he had pasty white skin with loads of freckles. He yawned every couple of minutes as they drove. He didn’t like mornings.

They arrived at Jay’s just before 7.15 am.

Dad honked the horn. Dillon pulled at his seatbelt impatiently.

A couple of minutes later, Jay stumbled out of the house.

‘Good luck, Jayden,’ his mum’s voice called from inside.

Jay threw his sports bag into the boot, then fell into the back seat of the car. ‘Yo!’ he grunted.

‘Yo right back at you,’ said Dad with a smirk.

Jay clicked the belt into place, leaned his face against the window and closed his eyes.

‘Come on,’ said Dillon, looking at his friend. ‘You can’t be tired. You’ve got to be on your best game.’

‘I’ll be fine when the time comes,’ said Jay sleepily, without opening his eyes.

Dillon poked him in the ribs. Jay grunted.

Dillon stared out the window for the next half hour. The sky was clear and blue. It looked set to be a bright sunny day. Which is exactly what Dillon liked. It would mean less time in his light box. The sun’s warming glow included ultraviolet light. And he would be out in it all morning.

The car pulled into the parking lot of the sportsground at 7.46 am. A number of cars were already there, and a bus was pulling in behind them.

‘We’re here,’ said Dillon, stabbing a finger into Jay’s ribs again before getting out.

Jay’s eyes snapped open and he sprung from the car, suddenly awake and enthused. ‘Ta-da!’ He flung out his arms. ‘Told you I’d be ready.’

Dillon laughed. ‘And people say I’m weird.’

‘Good luck,’ said Dad through the open window. ‘See you after the match.’

The two boys grabbed their bags and headed for the pavilion. An umpire was out on the oval, examining the pitch. A few people were hanging around the edges of the grass.

At eight on the dot, the coach gave them their pep talk. He was large, overweight and bald. He looked fierce, but spoke with a gentle lilt to his voice. He spoke about strategy, playing to your strengths and having fun.

The coin was tossed at 8.14 am. Dillon punched the air – their side would bat first. Batting was his strength.

He was up third.

The first two batters were doing well until a yorker from the opposition, coming in at the crease, took out the stumps.

It was Dillon’s turn now.

Butterflies were flying loop-the-loops in his stomach as he walked to the pitch. He had been a star batsman in junior cricket last year. His first season in his school’s senior team had been okay, but not brilliant. But he was feeling optimistic about today.

Dillon reached the crease, positioned himself and felt the butterflies scatter. He was never nervous while batting. His anxiety would rise as he waited for his turn and would go with him to the pitch, but as he took a deep breath in preparation to bat, it would disappear.

Dillon watched the ball as the bowler tossed it into the air and caught it. He did not take his eyes from it. He paid no attention to the bowler, couldn’t even tell you what he looked like. All his attention was focused on that red sphere as it was carried in the run up and released, hurtling down the pitch towards him.

He pulled the bat back and swung, the jarring sensation travelling up his arms and through his body like a wave as the ball connected with the bat.

The ball soared into the air and he ran. It landed on the grass, to be quickly scooped up by a fielder and thrown back.

Two runs.

He hit his next ball low.

One run.

His third ball came in super fast, right at the crease. He took a step forward and smashed it on the full with all his might.

He heard the cheering halfway down the pitch.

‘SIX!’ called the umpire.

Another cheer went up from the spectators.

His first six for the season! His first six in senior cricket!

Dillon scored another twenty runs before being caught out. A total of twenty-nine. He was happy with that.

The rest of the match streaked past in a blur of motion. Runs were scored, balls were caught, stumps were smashed. The game was close, but they won. And Dillon’s six was the only one of the match.

Dad took him and Jay out for milkshakes to celebrate. They sat at the café’s outside table. The three of them clinked their glasses together in a victory toast and Jay said, ‘You’re the dude!’

As Dillon slurped the last of his shake, he looked up and enjoyed the feel of the sun’s warmth on his face. His skin felt tingly and he imagined the ultraviolet light doing its work … like a cricket bat smashing the bilirubin out of his system – hitting it for a six!

He returned home on a wave of excitement, barely able to stop talking. Even his mum’s complaints about the state of his room couldn’t diminish the thrill of having scored a six. He promised to clean his room tomorrow.

Dinner was spaghetti bolognaise. His favourite.

And then it was into the light box.