SaqCricket is plagued by many problems at present. The oldest and most time-honoured format is in a painful death spiral. Franchise leagues are cannibalising the game while the entire ecosystem is on the verge of collapse. James Vince’s cover shot is still not a regular feature of the England team.
But if I had all the power and could change one thing about the sport I love, it would be this: I would make it easier – much easier – to buy vintage cricket jerseys. I know it’s a pretty selfish desire, like wasting three genie wishes on material acquisitions when ending world hunger was an option. But I can’t help it. Acquiring old sports equipment satisfies me in a way that only a collector could understand.
There’s nostalgia: jerseys from decades past act like time machines. Just touching the frayed fabric transports you to a moment in history as your vision floods with images from a distant era. A release 25 years ago. A shot before you were born.
Then there is the sense of ownership. Mark McKinley, the late American psychologist and university professor who also held the official world record for the most clocks owned, said that “collectors of objects are the height of consumerism”. He argued that the “aristocratic collectors” of the 18th and 19th centuries who hoarded fossils, shells and anthropological spoils were motivated by the same neurological tugs as cricket jersey collectors. It is what drives people to spend excessive money and effort searching for lost treasures. The only difference is that Terry Herbert had an easier time finding the Staffordshire treasure than I did finding my Holy Grail: the red jersey worn by South Africa during the 1997-98 Carlton & United trilogy in Australia.
Look it up: it’s a garish, hideous thing that threw tradition out the window by forcing the Proteas to dress up as Zimbabwe. Most South African fans would prefer this shirt never see the light of day again. But I’m obsessed. I absolutely have to have it. The only problem is, there’s no warehouse full of 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 fork out £699.99 for England’s 1987 third shirt or £549.99 for the famous grey shirt Manchester United wore in the first half of their 3-1 defeat to Southampton in 1996. Rugby fans are also lucky, with websites dedicated to their particular tastes. Their cricket counterparts, meanwhile, have to scour the hinterland like prospectors in the Old West.
“It’s a constant challenge,” says Satvik Mohatta, a die-hard India fan who owns hundreds of jerseys, sweaters, bats, balls and protective gear used by international players over decades and proudly displays them on his Instagram page. “Sometimes, you just have to contact a player and ask if I can have something of his. Most of the time, he doesn’t even respond, but sometimes I get lucky. Otherwise, you have to be careful with auction houses, know who to contact and keep your eyes open. You can get any football player’s jersey. Cricket, for some reason, just doesn’t have that.”
That’s why jersey collectors need to be vigilant at all times. Adam Collins, a podcaster, presenter and regular contributor to the Guardian, has been searching for decades to get his hands on the 1994-95 jersey used by the Australia A team, which included Ricky Ponting, Matthew Hayden and Michael Bevan before they became household names. One night, on the dancefloor of an independent club in Melbourne, Collins spotted an instantly recognisable flash of green and yellow. “I tried to pay the guy $400 to swap jerseys with me,” Collins says. “The guy said, ‘I’m never going to give that away.’ Which I respect enormously.”
That obsession with what Collins calls his “white whale” has spawned an audio documentary series that includes an interview with the late Jimmy Hadder, who became a national talking point after he was photographed wearing the jersey on the side of the road during the 1995 Super Bowl. “I was taken for a ride,” Collins says. “There were possible previews on eBay. Someone bought one from me once, which I refunded, but it turned out to be the wrong season.”
Given the lack of regulation, buying a fake is a constant source of worry. I too have been duped in the past, which has exacerbated my cynicism towards the game as a whole. While imitations are readily available, I regard them with the same contempt that snobbish meat-eaters have for vegan alternatives. Oh sure, it may look like the real thing, but I’d rather go without than wear the Quorn equivalent of Allan Donald’s puffy long sleeves.
It’s not just the influence, though I’d be lying if I didn’t revel in the knowing nods, the fist bumps, and the conversations with strangers who are so willing to share their own stories of quest and conquest. There’s the knowledge that this piece of fabric connects you not just to a moment in your past, but to someone who, through the simple act of kicking or throwing a ball, played a role in shaping your life.
“I do it to feel closer to my favourite players,” says Jenny Whitehead of Brisbane, who owns more than 120 specially selected jerseys of players she has seen live. “My friends and family think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But it has 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 easy to describe a cricket jersey as a work of art, visit the British Museum. In one corner of the Africa section, you’ll find a replica of the green jersey worn by Kenya in the 1999 World Cup. The large Maasai shield on the front makes it an instant classic. If only there were an easy way to get your hands on one.
This is an extract from the Guardian’s weekly cricket email, The Spin. To subscribe, simply visit this page and follow the instructions.
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