There is a lot that’s wrong with cricket at the moment. The longest and oldest format is in a painful death spiral. Franchise leagues are cannibalising the game as the entire ecosystem teeters on collapse. James Vince’s cover drive is still not a regular feature of the England side.
But if I held all the power and could change one thing about the sport I love it would be this: I’d make it easier – much easier – to purchase vintage cricket shirts. I know that’s a pretty selfish desire, like wasting three genie wishes on material acquisitions when eradicating world hunger was an option. But I can’t help it. Acquiring old sports gear satiates me in a way that only a fellow collector could understand.
There’s the nostalgia; jerseys from past decades act as time machines. Simply touching the frayed fabric transports you to a moment in history as your vision is flooded with images from a distant age. A run-out 25 years old. A catch from before you were born.
Then there’s the sense of ownership. Mark McKinley, the late American psychologist and university professor, who also held the official world record for most clocks owned, said “people who collect ‘things’ are at the apex of consumerism”. He argued that the “aristocratic collectors” of the 18th and 19th centuries who hoarded fossils, shells and anthropological plunder were motivated by the same neurological tugs as cricket shirt collectors. It’s what compels people to spend too much money and effort searching for lost treasure. The only difference is that Terry Herbert had an easier time finding the Staffordshire Hoard than I’ve had locating my holy grail: the red strip worn by South Africa during the 1997-98 Carlton & United Tri-series in Australia.
Look it up: it’s a gaudy, hideous thing that chucked tradition out the window by forcing the Proteas to cosplay as Zimbabwe. Most South Africa fans would prefer it never sees the light of day again. But I’m obsessed. I simply have to have it. The only problem is that there isn’t a warehouse filled with old shirts just waiting for a good home.
Football fans don’t know how lucky they are. Since 2006, Classic Football Shirts has been a one-stop shop for vintage gear. Right now you can part with £699.99 for the 1987 England third shirt or £549.99 for the notorious grey strip Manchester United wore in the first half of their 3-1 defeat to Southampton in 1996. Rugby supporters are similarly fortunate with dedicated websites catering to their particular tastes. Their cricket counterparts, though, must explore the hinterland like prospectors in the old west.
“It’s a constant challenge,” says Satvik Mohatta, a self-identified “diehard” India fan and owner of hundreds of shirts, jumpers, bats, balls and protective gear used by international players spanning decades that he proudly shows off on his Instagram page. “Sometimes it’s as simple as reaching out to a player and asking them if I can have something of theirs. Most of the time they don’t even respond, but occasionally I get lucky. Otherwise it’s about paying attention to auction houses, knowing who to contact and just keeping your eyes open. You can get any football player’s shirt. Cricket, for some reason, just doesn’t have that.”
Which is why collectors on the prowl have to remain vigilant at all times. Adam Collins, the podcaster, broadcaster and regular Guardian contributor, has been in a decades-long pursuit to get his hands on the 1994‑95 top used by the Australia A team that included Ricky Ponting, Matthew Hayden and Michael Bevan before they were household names. One night, on the dancefloor of an indie club in Melbourne, Collins spotted an instantly recognisable flash of green and yellow. “I tried to pay the bloke $400 to swap shirts with me,” Collins says. “The guy said: ‘No fucking way am I ever giving this away.’ Which I respect immensely.”
This obsession with what Collins calls his “white whale” has been turned into an audio documentary series and includes an interview with the late Jimmy Hadder, who became a national talking point after he was photographed wearing the shirt on the sidelines at the 1995 Super Bowl. “I’ve been led down the garden path,” Collins says. “There have been possible sightings on eBay. Someone bought me one once, which I paid them back for, but it turned out to be the wrong season.”
Given the lack of regulation, purchasing a fake is a constant worry. I, too, have been duped in the past, which has exacerbated my cynicism around the game as a whole. Although knockoffs are readily available, I regard them with the same contempt snobby meat eaters have for vegan alternatives. Oh sure, it might look like the real thing, but I’d rather go without than wear the Quorn equivalent of Allan Donald’s billowing long-sleeve.
It’s not just for the clout, though I’d be lying if I didn’t get high off the knowing nods, the fist bumps and the chats with strangers who are so willing to share their own stories of quest and conquer. There is the knowledge that this piece of cloth connects you not only to a moment in your past but to someone who, through the simple act of hitting or bowling a ball, played a role in shaping your life.
“I do it to feel closer to my favourite players,” says Jenny Whitehead from Brisbane, who owns more than 120 specially selected shirts from players she has seen live. “My friends and family think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But it’s brought me so much joy.”
In her 2019 book, Inside the Head of a Collector: Neuropsychological Forces at Play, Shirley Mueller writes: “The reason we collect art is simple. It makes us happy.” If you think it’s glib to describe a cricket shirt as art, take a visit to the British Museum. In one corner of the Africa section, you will find a replica of the green shirt worn by Kenya at the 1999 World Cup. The large Maasai shield on the front makes it an instant classic. If only there was a simple way to get one.
This is an extract from the Guardian’s weekly cricket email, The Spin. To subscribe, just visit this page and follow the instructions.
