Phil Tufnell saw it on Ceefax. Peter Such found out from a journalist who had called him for a quote. A hungover Phillip DeFreitas was told by the gateman at Grace Road. David Steele was in a traffic jam. Colin Cowdrey was alerted by a stranger’s car radio; seconds later, Frank Tyson heard his name read out while enjoying a close-of-play tipple in the changing room. Denis Compton’s father spotted it in the newspaper: “One evening, at about 6.45pm, my father, usually such a quiet man, rushed in full of excitement, waving the evening paper. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing to the sports page. ‘You’ve been selected for England, Denis.’”
Last summer, Josh Hull was in the shower when his phone buzzed. “I stuck my head through the curtain, and saw this +64 number. I was like: ‘That’s a weird code, must be a dodgy call.’ I suddenly thought: ‘Oh Christ, is that a New Zealand number?’” Hull clambered out, and picked up his phone. The +64 number was typing a WhatsApp message. “It dawned on me what might be happening,” he said. The phone trilled: “Hi Josh, Baz McCullum here, would you mind giving me a quick call back?” Hull stood rooted to the spot – 20 years old, naked as the day he was born, a childhood dream about to become reality. He called back. Next stop: a Test debut against Sri Lanka at The Oval.
By the end of the series in New Zealand in December, 718 men had played Test cricket for England. In most cases, news of their selection was met with excitement, pride and nerves. For some, there was a sense of calm, even inevitability; for others, it was a shock, utterly overwhelming.
“I prayed that I wouldn’t be included,” wrote Somerset’s Harold Gimblett after hearing his name announced on the radio before the Lord’s Test against India in 1936. “Far from throwing my hat in the air, I was terrified. I just wanted to go away and get lost. I didn’t want to play for England.” Gimblett sought solace, jumping on his bicycle and going “in search of Rita”, later his wife of 40 years.
When Shoaib Bashir found out in a call from McCullum that he had been chosen for the Test tour of India in early 2024, he was at his family home in Woking. “My heart just dropped,” he says. “I was thinking a million things at once. The call ended, I dropped the phone, put my head in my hands and started crying. My family were in tears too. It was just incredible. I don’t think we’ll ever have a moment like that again.”
From a tap on the shoulder, via letters, telegrams, phone calls and text messages, to other less official means, England’s cricketers have learned of their selection in a variety of ways. And the communication itself offers a glimpse of social history. Before central contracts, a player might have been told by an informed journalist. In fact, leaks were so common that TCCB chief executive Alan Smith went down on hands and knees to sweep a meeting room for bugging devices before the 1993-94 touring party were chosen for the Caribbean.
Then there was the BBC’s Ceefax service, with players discovering their pixellated fate, TV remote in hand. “It was a case of scouring for page 340,” says Tufnell. “I don’t remember getting a phone call at all, but there might have been a nudge and a wink from Gatt in the run-up.” Mike Gatting, his Middlesex teammate and a former Test captain, had taken the ponytail-sporting Tufnell to a north London barber for a short back and sides before the announcement of the 1990-91 Ashes squad. “I don’t think the ponytail was seen as befitting an England prospect,” says Tufnell. “I was in the chair wailing like a child. To be fair, I got the call-up two weeks later.”
The more relaxed approach of McCullum and Ben Stokes is reflected by their penchant for WhatsApp. Not long after Jack Leach was ruled out of the 2023 Ashes at short notice, Moeen Ali – who had retired from Tests two years earlier – looked at his phone: “Stokesy messaged me with ‘Ashes?’ I hadn’t heard the news on Leachy, so I just said ‘lol’, thinking he’s taking the mick. Then the news came through and I had a chat with him. That was it.”
It can only be a matter of time before a player learns of England duty via a bat-and-ball emoji. What would the five MCC secretaries responsible for informing players between 1898 and 1974 have made of it all? Consider the brusque typed letter from Francis Lacey to an uncapped Jack Hobbs before the 1907-08 Ashes tour: “I have been instructed to invite you to accompany the team. The terms of engagement are embodied in the enclosed agreement. If you accept the invitation, please sign and return the agreement.” The contracts were long and formal.
Until the end of the Gentlemen–Players divide in 1963, amateurs and professionals received different invitations from MCC, with the amateurs gaining more from expenses and commercial opportunities than the pros might earn from the entire trip. The letters for the 1946-47 Ashes from MCC secretary Rowan Rait Kerr advised the pros to “make yourself acquainted with the rate of exchange”. And the amateurs? “Expenses of passages to and from, board, lodging and travelling in Australasia will be paid by the MCC, and the sum of £150 will be given to each amateur for drinks, tobacco and taxis to and from grounds, and all other incidental expenses.”
Sartorially, at least, there was greater equality, with pros and amateurs alike asked to have the MCC touring colours painted on all luggage, and to contact “Messrs Simpson of Piccadilly, London W1, who will upon application forward you a blazer, two caps and two ties”. There was also a request to pack “dinner jacket and black tie, warm suit and overcoat”. Of bucket hats there was no mention.
Invitations would normally be sent via the player’s county, who would then give permission to tour. During the 1981 Ashes, Bob Willis came down with a heavy cold in the Second Test at Lord’s. He was advised not to play for Warwickshire before the Third, at Headingley, which convinced Mike Brearley – back as captain after the resignation of Ian Botham – that England needed a replacement.
The selectors settled on Mike Hendrick, and sent a letter to Derbyshire secretary Douglas Carr. But Willis recalled: “I told Alec [Bedser, chairman of selectors] that the only reason I wasn’t playing in the Warwickshire match was so that I could shake off the flu and be fit for England.” He proved his fitness by playing in a one-day game for the Second XI, at which point Bedser instructed Carr to ensure the invitation didn’t reach Hendrick. As Willis, who would play a central role in England’s Headingley miracle, later put it: “That’s how close I got to not playing in that game.”
The advent of email phased out some of the paperwork but, until recently, a hard copy came through the letterbox. “I’ve still got the embossed card they sent in the post inviting me to join the England squad at Lord’s,” says Angus Fraser. These invitations are a physical memento of a special moment, the equivalent of Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.
When there was no news from an official source, the radio became crucial. “That’s how they tell you,” wrote Geoffrey Boycott. “No phone call from the chairman of selectors. No conversation with the captain. The 1pm news. BBC Light radio. Sunday 31 May 1964. That’s how you’ll hear.”
There was subterfuge, too. With no professional cricket on Sundays in England, and Boycott undefeated on 70 for Yorkshire against Leicestershire at Grace Road, Alan Thompson – the northern cricket correspondent of the Daily Express – offered him a lift back to his mother’s house in Fitzwilliam: “No point staying in a strange city all day when you can have a night in your own bed, Geoffrey.” Thompson had received a tipoff that Boycott was about to be picked for England, though Boycott bet him a fiver he was wrong.
Next morning, Thompson arrived in Fitzwilliam with a photographer, and Boycott had his picture taken while batting in front of his mother’s upturned bathtub. He tuned into the 1pm news. “The bulletin seemed to drag on and on, before the announcer said: ‘And finally, here is the England team to play in the First Test match against the Australians at Trent Bridge on Thursday. Ted Dexter, Sussex, captain; David Allen, Gloucestershire; Ken Barrington, Surrey; Geoff Boycott, Yorkshire …’” Boycott later found out that every sports reporter in the land had been trying to get hold of him. “You bugger,” he told Thompson. “You set me up!” The penny had dropped: “Alan had spirited me away for his exclusive. His exclusive and my fiver, that’s what Alan got.”
With the team always listed in alphabetical order, the announcement of a particular name might mean bad news. “He’s a lovely bloke and I’ve got nothing against him, but when I heard John Crawley’s name read out, my heart sank,” said Dominic Cork.
During his five-year stint as chief selector for the men’s team from 2008, Geoff Miller found himself de facto dream-maker and dream-taker. “I tried to do everything face to face, whether telling someone they were going to play for England, or informing them they weren’t,” he says. “I liked looking in the whites of their eyes, seeing what made them tick, whether they had the heart for it … Stokes, Rooty, Jimmy, Broady, I did them all just like that. It was a privilege of the position. Looking back, I do feel proud. These guys are now greats of the game, and I got to tell them first.”
On one occasion, a late injury crisis meant Miller had to break the news over the phone at 7am on a Sunday, a couple of hours before the squad announcement. “I dialled the number. It rang for ages, and then this gruff voice answered. I said: ‘Hello, it’s Geoff Miller here.’” The response was unequivocal: “Fuck off.” Miller tried again, with the same result. He tried a third time: “Do not put the phone down, just listen.” Durham seamer Graham Onions, who later admitted he had never heard of Geoff Miller, was told he was about to make his Test debut at Lord’s. “He was dead chuffed in the end,” says Miller, “and very apologetic.”
Lynne Thomas, the first woman to score an ODI century (for England against an International XI in the 1973 World Cup at Hove) had been playing against a men’s village side in the Midlands in 1966, one of many games organised by Rachael Heyhoe Flint to raise funds towards the cost of England tours. Thomas’s parents were there to watch.
“At the tea interval, my father came to find me,” she says. “He asked if I had been told I’d been selected for England’s Test against New Zealand at Edgbaston. I told him I hadn’t. He asked if there was another player by the name of Lynne Thomas in the match that day. I said: ‘No.’ ‘Well, you’re in then. They have just announced the Test team over the Tannoy and there was a Lynne Thomas named in it.’”
Thirty years later, Charlotte Edwards’ mum was less clued up. A 16-year-old Charlotte was knocking a bat and ball about in the family home in Pidley, Cambridgeshire, when the phone rang. “My mum came out and said there was a lady called Anne Gordon for me. My mum had no idea who Anne Gordon was, and didn’t know what was happening. I knew exactly who she was – she was England’s chairwoman of selectors. I stood still for a second. I couldn’t believe it. Then I sprinted to the phone.”
Edwards had just finished her GCSEs, but an examination of a different kind lay in wait: she had been picked to play against New Zealand at Guildford. “I can recall it as if it was yesterday,” she says. “This was everything I’d ever wanted, and it was happening. I started to well up. There was elation and a bit of fear, too. I got off the phone, and my mum and I had a cuddle, and let it wash over us. It was such a special moment for us to share.”
“What a load of crap!” David Steele sits laughing in his armchair at home in Geddington, Northamptonshire, as he pours scorn on some of the tales about the summer of 1975, when he made 365 runs in three Tests against Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. He springs to his feet and sways from side to side, evading imaginary bouncers. “The ball was flying past my nose. ‘Smell the leather,’ as they say. I tell you what, you felt like you were really living. I bloody loved it out there.”
Steele has just been made aware of Tony Greig’s 1976 appearance on Desert Island Discs, in which he tells Roy Plomley about the moments before the Second Test at Lord’s: “I’ll never forget giving David Steele his England cap. As I shook him by the hand, tears fell down on mine.” Steele laughs. “That was Greigy – he could put his foot in his mouth!”
He speaks in a flat Midlands accent reminiscent of an Alan Sillitoe character and his words boom round the living room. “Dennis was getting riled up. He bent his back and really drilled one into the middle of the pitch. I smacked the bloody thing away through square leg and it went like a shell!” Carol, his wife of more than 50 years, mentions that David has recently been diagnosed with dementia. And yet: “He loves talking about cricketing days, especially playing for England. He’s so proud of that.”
Steele was driving with Duncan Fearnley to a John Player League match for Northamptonshire against Worcestershire at Dudley in 1975, when the car in front flagged them down. “Hey Steeley,” said teammate Jim Watts. “You’re in the Test side, it’s just been on the radio.” Steele says: “Duncan shoved 50 quid in my pocket. Now that’s business! He didn’t miss a trick, did Duncan. He wanted me to use one of his bats in the Test match. We didn’t earn much as players in those days, but I tell you what: I’d have done it for bloody nothin’!”
A bespectacled Steele was the story of the summer, and the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year, having shown – in the words of Greig – “true-blue English blood and guts”. Steele mimes taking off his cap and kissing the badge with an emphatic pucker, before lowering himself into his armchair. “Wearing he cap with the lions – there’s no feeling like it.”
In 1908, Edward VII granted permission for a blue cap “for all England” to include the crown and lion symbols that appeared on the Royal Coat of Arms. It has since become totemic, with cap numbers backdated to the first official Test, in 1876-77: Tom Armitage is No. 1, by virtue of alphabetical order, and Jacob Bethell No. 718, after his debut at Christchurch in November.
In December 2022 at Karachi, Rehan Ahmed became the youngest recipient, at 18 years 126 days. He had just been in Dubai with England Lions, playing a training match, when McCullum approached him: “I was getting absolutely smacked, but at lunchtime Baz came up to me and said: ‘You’re going to Pakistan. You’re going to play for England.’ It was just the best thing to hear.” At Karachi, Ahmed’s father, Naeem, was invited to join the team huddle for the cap presentation, which has become a regular occurrence.
Back in 1995, before his Test debut, Nick Knight simply rummaged through a box of caps on the dressing room table: “I just took one that fitted.” And when Rob Key and Steve Harmison made their debuts in the same Trent Bridge Test against India in 2002, they were congratulated by their new captain, Nasser Hussain. Key remembers: “He shook my hand. ‘Well done, Kent.’ He shook Harmy’s hand. ‘Well done, Durham.’ And walked off.”
As a Sky Sports broadcaster presenting Ahmed with his cap on the Karachi outfield two decades later, Hussain spoke movingly of sacrifice and pride. Ahmed describes it as “one of the best moments of my life”. Danny Reuben, head of communications for England’s male squads, organises the presentations, which are often filmed and shared on social media. “It’s up there among the most special things we do,” he says. “And that resonates when we put these videos out to the public. To see a player on what is arguably one of the greatest days of their lives is a real privilege. Nothing compares with it, really.”
David Steele is on his feet again. As we head to the door – “I saw Lillee and Thomson off, I’ll do the same with you!” – he pauses at each photograph on display, his grandchildren, mainly. He’s looking at them lovingly through his spectacles, underneath that familiar shock of white hair. The final picture has Steele in his Test cap, staring back down the lens, glasses askew. He picks it up, holds it, gazing at the black and white image of himself from 50 years ago. He doesn’t look up as he speaks, more softly now. “To think that you dreamed about it. Then you got it. I’ll always have it, and I’ll take it with me.”
This is an extract from the 2025 Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack.
