And anyway others have paid tribute far more eloquently. Greg Baum's piece earlier in the week brought a lump to my throat. Kathryn Wicks said what I wanted to say as a parent of a young cricketer who was touched by the death of an Aussie boy like him, my son said, who died playing a game they both loved.

And part of me didn't want to write about it, the coverage of it, because part of me was astounded, perhaps a little angry even, about how the death of one young man dominated media coverage when young men, and women, die every day. They die on work sites and in car accidents, die from diseases we should be doing more to find cures for, and most sadly, die by their own hand. Too many of them die.

But then on Wednesday night, ironically home early because a cricket game had been washed out, I caught the news coverage of his funeral. Marrickville was indeed a town in mourning. But look there's Warnie and Brian Lara and what is Kyly wearing and what the heck were Tony Abbott and Bill Shorten even doing there. But then the coffin bearers stumbled in their grief. And later the cameras cut to Virginia, his mother. In the pews, surrounded by her family, distraught. Her youngest son was dead.

And then there was probably three seconds of footage of her crying, leaning against the coffin, her strong hands holding her son for the last time.

That's when I lost it and finally shed a tear for Phillip Hughes. For no mother should have to bury a child. And too many do.

I cannot imagine having to bury a child. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for Virginia and her husband Greg. Especially in such a public way. I'm sure they are grateful in some way for the support they have received from the cricketing community but Hughes was their son way before he was a left handed opening batsman.

I remember the first funeral I ever went to where a mother buried her child. My Uncle Cec was probably in his 40s when he died and my Nan must have been approaching 70. She was a strong woman, not unlike Virginia Hughes I dare suggest, but on that day I saw her falter several times. It wasn't right

It's a mother's job to protect her children and make sure they grow well into old age. A mother's job to make sure they find their way in life, whether that's playing cricket for Australia or raising cows. A mother's job to make sure her children have every chance of living long, happy lives, finding something they love to do, find someone they love, who loves them back. Virginia has had all that taken from her.

Perhaps she can find some solace in the thought that cricketing mothers around the world are all thinking of her now. As we washed our son's whites after last weekend's games, peeling the black electrical tape off the left sleeve, we might have said a prayer for a woman who no doubt spent many a weekend doing the same for her sons, cursing grass stains and red rubbed off the ball. Or we might have sat with our sons on the boundary as they waited for their turn to bat and talked. Cricket lends itself to talking, there are hours to kill some days and, out in the sun, away from all the cares in the world, boys open up about all sorts of things.

Like last weekend when they talked about Hughes and how the whole thing had affected them, about how now they were going to be a little more grateful for their opportunities, respect their wicket a little more, keep playing cricket even though they hated it when they got out, for after all they were just out, and tomorrow they could bat again.

I've always thought cricket teaches you a lot of things about yourself. Fielding at deep fine leg all day in the sun as your bowlers take no wickets. Forging a solid 20 off a thousand balls. Picking yourself up after you drop a sitter. It's not the game for everyone but it has a knack of drawing tenacious lads (and lasses), talent aside, kids who are patient, and steady, yet with a burning desire to make a mark. To send that ball flying to the fence, to send middle stump flying, to trick a batsman with a ball they're not even sure how they bowled.

It will be a true test of character to see how the Australian team bounces back in time for the Second, now First Test, against India in Adelaide on Tuesday December 9. We need our tenacious team now. It's been a tough couple of years for everyone involved in Australian cricket, players and supporters alike  and, perhaps if any good is to come of Hughes' death, it will be that our team remembers why they love to play the game. For is there anything better than spending time on a sporting field with your mates, doing something you love?

I was lounging about on the boundary with my own son last weekend and he said something along the lines that if his own young life was to be cut short unexpectedly then it would sort of be cool for it to happen doing something he loved.

While I pray this is never the case, that I see him grow old and grey like his mother is now, I understood what he meant.

Captain Michael Clarke has proved this week that he is more than many of us thought he was. He has to now gather his team around him and help them all remember why they love this game so much. That will get Australia home.

And in a small way it might help Virginia and Greg  Hughes too.

That a mother has buried her son is the saddest story here. Now it's time for the toss and the next ball to be bowled.