Is Blockchain Cricket's New Pulse? Notes From Dhaka's Stands

At 2:17 a.m., the phone buzzed in the flat on Road 27 in Dhanmondi. On the line was Dhrub Rayhan, a 24-year-old software developer. He came straight to the point: "Brother, three clubs just joined our platform. Groundstaff wages, match fees, bonuses — everything is going into smart contracts." Dhrub once played for an Eleventh Division club; he later learned to code and built an experimental platform called CricketChain. Last year, a stadium worker told him that collecting a month's overdue pay required three signatures from the club secretary and two weeks of standing in line. "I thought — what if a code could end that wait?" I have been watching cricket from beside the field since joining The Daily Star's cricket desk in 2026. In 41 years of observation, I can say that blockchain is the first technology that has the lowest rungs of domestic cricket — stadium workers, reserve players, scorers — talking without any star in the room. That conversation is now my subject. Is blockchain cricket's new pulse? Or is it another technology-wrapped mirage? Blockchain is no stranger to world cricket. In 2026, the ICC launched its first official NFT collection. Australia's Big Bash League experimented with fan tokens. Several IPL franchises built their own digital archives. But most of that was marketing gloss — branding, a way to catch a younger generation of fans. Entrepreneurs like Dhrub are pointing elsewhere: at the queue of payments, contracts and dues in domestic cricket. Sitting in Dhaka's grounds for years, I have watched a "culture of waiting". Delayed allowances, unpaid groundstaff wages, the contractual tangles of domestic cricketers — has a season passed without me writing about at least one? The Bangladesh Premier League produces payment gossip every season. Once a franchise official told me that a foreign player's fee was stuck in banking complications; that player threatened to leave the hotel. In such a world, the word blockchain first aroused suspicion. "Another bogus solution," I thought. But when I looked at Dhrub's platform, the calculation shifted. Within 90 minutes of a match ending, a Fourth Division player's phone had received his fee — the transaction executed as soon as the smart contract's conditions were met. My doubt remains, but the question is no longer whether blockchain is good or bad. The question is: placed in whose hands, does this technology profit whom, and hurt whom? Turning that question over for the people of the ground is the real work of this article. When blockchain walks into cricket's courtyard, its footsteps are heard at three levels: payments, data, and the relationship with fans. Each level carries a glimmer of hope — and hidden arithmetic. Cricket's most silent wound lies hidden inside its system. Overdue wages in domestic cricket are nothing new. Premier League cricketers are celebrities; the daily struggle of the workers who collect balls on the same field is our unwritten reality. One afternoon, a groundstaff worker told me: "We have no agent, no one to bargain in the market. We just stand in line after the match." Smart contracts can reduce this friction. The contract encodes when, how much, and into which account; once conditions are met, the payment runs by itself. In the middle, there is no middleman, no "next month" story. On Dhrub's platform, from contract signing to payment, every step is recorded on a public ledger; no party can erase it. Its significance is enormous. At the end of every season, transfer rumours spread mostly because payment calculations did not add up. A transfer is not a transaction; it is a heartbeat changing rooms. In 2026, I broke Emeka Ogbugh's loan deal from Mohammedan to Abahani — a mere $12,000 deal — releasing it first in a 500-member WhatsApp fan group. The group erupted with 200 reactions; 15,000 people later read my piece. That experience taught me: contractual opacity is the fuel of rumour. If blockchain brings transparency, players, clubs and even the media can breathe easier. But here is the disparity. Columns are written when Shakib Al Hasan or Tamim Iqbal's fee rises; yet no one loses sleep over the arrears of a Fourth Division cricketer, a groundstaff worker, or a reserve player in the women's team. If sustainable technology searches for the people of the shadow first, only then does its arithmetic truly add up. Cricket's other tug-of-war is around data. The speed of every ball, the line and length of every delivery, the angle of every shot — all of it now floats in real time. Companies place cameras and harvest information; but who owns it? The board, the broadcaster, or the company that installed the machines? In blockchain's vocabulary, this is called data provenance — where a piece of data came from, who altered it, whose signature it carries. This matters in cricket because field data now does more than feed analysis; it feeds betting platforms. To me, this is the darkest side effect of sports' datafication. Delivery after delivery, people gamble; in front of them, the phone screen shows a live score, with a betting app's banner beside it. Sitting in Dhaka's stands, I have seen this scene countless times. A gallery lit by phone screens is now the new match-day culture. If blockchain makes the pipeline transparent, at least we will know which entity is sending what information where, and how fast. No one can guarantee that illegal betting chains will stop entirely; but some of the money flowing in the dark may come into the light. The question is not the ledger; it is on whose table that ledger lies open — that decides who profits. Now, the fans. During the 2026 Russia World Cup, I spent 30 days in Dhanmondi's Argentina-coloured lanes. On the France–Argentina night, nearly 10,000 people gathered before one screen. From that experience came "The Blue and White City" — 12 installments, 8,000 shares, comments from 14 countries. From then on, I have believed that fan culture is the pulse of the game. Blockchain's third layer is here: fan tokens, digital collectibles, memorabilia. It sounds sweet; the suspicion is deep. Will token-sale revenue ever cross the club board's drawer? Or will this become another expensive digital jersey — pleasant to buy, but with no practical value like a real jersey? Blockchain promises that buying a token means transparent accounting. But accounting being transparent, and a fan's dues being paid, are two different things. I know the rooftop groups of Dhanmondi. They are 500 on WhatsApp, sending live reactions after matches; sometimes quarrels, and next day peace again. These people do not need blockchain as digital animation; they need accountability — where the club's money goes, why ticket prices rise, why women's team matches still lack the light of broadcast. I also think of Bangladeshi fans abroad. On World Cup nights, messages arrive on WhatsApp from Dubai, London, New York. They depend on digital platforms to watch matches at home; tokens or subscriptions could turn that relationship into commerce. My question — will the profit of that commerce return to the people of the ground? Now the words that rarely surface. Blockchain's biggest danger: treating it as the solution and hiding the real problems. Technology can show a transparent ledger; but if the person holding power in the board or club does not wish it, false data can be entered there too. A smart contract pays when conditions are met; but who wrote the conditions? If the beneficiary party writes them, blockchain merely makes that injustice faster and more certain. The second danger is data. Match feeds reach betting platforms; blockchain's reliability can make that feed more valuable. Betting operators need fast, credible, competitive information — exactly what blockchain supplies. In other words, the technology carries in its chest the risk of strengthening the very gambling culture I have written against. Technology is neutral; the user's ethics are not. The third danger is the illusion of symbolic ownership. Buying a digital collectible does not mean a fan's voice will walk through cricket's decisions. Fan tokens make fans partners, in feeling; nothing changes in the power of management. Equal broadcast, a stronger domestic structure, workers' dues — none of these come from buying tokens. If technology only turns the phone screen into a festival, without changing the field's reality, that is like covering the ground with decorative lights. And the environmental account cannot be ignored either. Blockchains with heavy energy consumption leave a huge carbon footprint every day. When cricket talks about climate, how much of that consciousness does it show in its own digital infrastructure? That question demands an answer. So, is blockchain cricket's new pulse? My answer: not yet. Technology is not the ball, not the bat; it is the notebook of an accountant sitting beside. What gets written in the notebook is decided by the system. Blockchain does not change the system; it changes the kind of ledger. I keep the beat by listening to what the crowd does not say. Whether the worker sweeping the stadium corridor with a smile gets his wages on time — real success will be measured by that smile surviving. New technology may come; but may the first question always be — how are the players and workers? — and only then, how transparent is the ledger? A transparent ledger is good; but if the humans behind the ledger are well, that is the true renaissance. At the next match, when some worker's wages move through Dhrub's platform, I will look at the phone again. Whether it strikes 2:17, that is what I will watch for.