From Dhaka's Dustbowls to Lord's Tunnel: A Spring Kept in the Heart

Around four o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, I was standing outside Gate No. 1 of Mirpur. The air smelled of damp earth, and from the ticket line came a vague murmur like an effigy being burned. A young man stood before the board holding an A4 sheet with the words 'When will spring return?' written on it. I stared at that paper for a long time. There was a stain of ink on the corner, and a trembling in the handwriting. In Bangladesh cricket, spring does not mean only the April breeze. Spring here means those adolescents who, batting on the grounds of the domestic league, one day suddenly wear the national jersey and walk the Lord's tunnel. But does the end of that tunnel always hold light?

I have been wandering Bangladesh's cricket grounds for nearly eight years. When I joined The Daily Star's sports desk in 2026, my first assignment was a Premier League match in Barishal. It was not the cool atmosphere of Mirpur's Sher-e-Bangla Stadium—the Barishal ground was a mix of Chaitra sun, dust and sweat. Only two hundred spectators were at that match. Yet hearing the roar of those two hundred, it felt like the breath of an entire nation. That day I understood that the central vow of Bangladesh cricket is not actually winning or losing on the field. The central vow is how many boys will rise from this soil, and how much sweat will stand still in their families.

In the current transfer window, the biggest talk on TV and social media is about the huge signing-on fees of free agents. When a cricketer finishes a contract and moves to a new team, the figure his signing-on fee reaches is often higher than an actual transfer fee. At the 2026 franchise league auction, I saw that the signing-on fee of one top player was set at nearly four and a half crore rupees, while his base price was only fifty lakh. But within this huge figure hide many invisible costs—agent commissions, board approvals, bank guarantees. And the biggest cost is borne by the team's dressing room. When new players arrive, it takes time to build relationships with the old ones. Some say money solves all problems. But I have seen that dressing-room chemistry can never be bought with money.

I had a friend named Saiful. He was twenty-six then. He was a right-arm off-spinner who took wickets consistently in the domestic league, but the door to the national team never opened for him. In his best season he took a hundred wickets, yet he never found a place on the selectors' radar. One evening, sitting at a small tea stall beside the Mirpur training camp, he told me, 'Brother, I bowl to batsmen, but no one bowls to my future.' Whether there was water in the corner of his eyes, I am not certain. But the teacup in his hand was trembling. I still cannot forget that trembling.

The stories of getting a chance in the national team are often written very beautifully. Some say talent always wins. Some say hard work never goes in vain. But I think these words are often half-true. Because in Bangladesh cricket, those who get a chance have not only talent or hard work behind them—they have being in the right place at the right time, relationships with selectors, media attention, and the family's financial capacity. I know many cricketers who rose from the mofussil of Barishal, Rajshahi or Sylhet, but whose families could never afford the cost of staying at a national camp. So they left the camp. This is not only their defeat, it is the defeat of the whole system.

Inequality of opportunity in Bangladesh cricket is not only a matter of selection, it is fundamentally an inequality of wealth. Those who can rent a house in a big city, buy nutritious food for training, spend money on video analysis of matches—they move ahead. Yet the boy who bowls barefoot on a mofussil ground may have another Mustafizur hidden inside him. But we have no system to find that Mustafizur. We wait for someone to rise on his own. But how much of the social and economic conditions needed for him to rise on his own have we created?

Once I went to Sylhet to cover an Under-16 tournament. There I met a thirteen-year-old boy who was a left-arm spinner. His fingers were long, and when he released the ball there was a small twist of his wrist that made it seem as if he were giving the ball as a gift. That boy told me, 'Brother, I watch matches online on a phone, but buying data costs money.' His father was a day labourer, his mother a homemaker. He did not have a smartphone. He watched matches on a neighbour's phone. I asked him how many matches he had watched. He said, 'As many as I can.' In that word 'as many as I can' so much poverty and so much dream were mixed together that I could not speak for a while.

When I analyse the transfer system of Bangladesh's domestic cricket, one thing catches my eye again and again. Clubs pour lakhs of taka behind star players, but invest nothing at the very grassroots. In the Dhaka Premier League, a national-team player's per-match fee is twenty to thirty thousand taka. On the other hand, a First Division player is paid five hundred taka for the same match. This gap is not only financial, it is mental. How will a player who gets five hundred taka run his family, and how will he play well?

The lack of investment in domestic leagues means the foundation of the future national team becomes weak. When we hire foreign coaches, pay crores in salaries, the salary of a domestic coach sitting nearby is fifteen thousand taka. Yet that coach is the one who builds the foundation of a thirteen-year-old boy. We often accept this inequality as normal. But this normality is the biggest abnormality.

On a November morning I went to the Mirpur Nursery Ground. There, from seven in the morning, twelve-year-old boys were doing net practice. One of them was a left-handed batsman who, before leaving each ball, glanced once toward deep point. I could not understand why. Later I asked his coach. The coach said, 'He thinks there is a fielder there.' But that morning there was no fielder there. The boy was only imagining. In his imagination he was creating his own future fielder. Hearing this, I felt that this imagination may be Bangladesh cricket's greatest strength. Because where there is no fielder in reality, one must be created with imagination.

But how long can one run on imagination? When the boy grows up, he will need a real fielder. He will need real money. He will need a real chance. Imagination can only make him dream, but it cannot turn the dream into reality. So our question should be—are we creating a real fielder for that boy? Or are we merely indulging his imagination?

My friend Saiful no longer plays cricket. He now runs a small business in the alleys of Dhaka. But he still goes to Mirpur every Friday, just to stand beside the nets. He says, 'Brother, I cannot play, but I like to watch.' That same trembling is in his eyes. That day I asked him whether he still dreams. He laughed and said, 'Dreams never stop. Only reality changes.' I wrote this line in my notebook. Because this is the story of Bangladesh cricket—dreams do not stop, reality changes.

If I now ask myself, what is the biggest crisis in Bangladesh cricket? I would say the crisis is not in lost matches. The crisis is in all those players who have been lost without getting a chance. The crisis is in all those mothers who sold their jewellery for their son's cricket dream, but the son could never wear the national jersey. The crisis is in all those coaches who run their days on fifteen thousand taka, yet their students want to become crorepati players.

The biggest investment in our cricket structure is needed at the grassroots, not behind the stars. Because stars are made from the grassroots. If the grassroots dry up, stars will not be made either. If we spend ten crore taka a year for the national team, we should spend at least one crore taka on domestic cricket. But that place in our budget is often empty.

I know all this often sounds clichéd. Some say everyone knows this. But between knowing and doing—that distance is our biggest problem. We all know the grassroots must be strengthened. But no one wants to take that responsibility. Because the fruit of the grassroots comes ten years later, while the fruit of stars comes next season.

I remember again that young man from Thursday. He had written on the paper, 'When will spring return?' I did not answer then. Because I did not know the answer. But if I could answer him now, I would say—spring will not return, spring must be made. Spring does not come on its own. Spring must be made with patience, with money, with time. Our cricket lacks that patience, that money and that time.

Sitting in the Mirpur gallery, I often see the spectator beside me leave before half the match is over. Because either Bangladesh is losing, or the match has become monotonous. But if that spectator stayed, he would see what happens in the last five overs. Cricket is not only win or loss, cricket is the possibility hidden in every ball. But seeing that possibility requires patience. And patience is taught from childhood.

I have a habit—after every match I sit for a while in the empty stadium. Then the floodlights go off, and only the security guard's torchlight falls on the field. In that light the soil looks strange—as if in every particle a story remains untold. I think how many boys came to this field, how many left. Some became stars, some became businessmen, some became security guards. But they all had one thing in common—they all once dreamed.

In childhood I used to go to Mirpur with my father to watch matches. Father would say, 'While watching the game, do not look only at the scoreboard, look into the player's eyes.' I did not understand then. But growing up I understood—the scoreboard does not lie, but it does not tell the whole truth. The real truth is in the player's eyes, in the trembling of his hand, in the pressure of his feet. That truth is caught in no statistic.

In this transfer window we must remember one thing—however big the figure of money, the final judgment happens on the field, in the player's heart. The player who arrives with a signing-on fee, if he cannot blend with the team, that huge figure becomes only a burden. And the player who rises from the grassroots, if he gets a chance, plays with his whole life—because for him this chance is everything.

When I remember Saiful, I feel that if he had got a chance, Bangladesh's spin attack might have been sharper today. But he did not get the chance. This not-getting is our cricket's invisible loss. There is no account of this loss in any statistic. But the pain of this loss is borne by countless families, countless coaches, countless dreams.

I am writing this piece in memory of that young man who stood at the Mirpur gate looking for spring. There was a stain of ink on the corner of the paper in his hand. Seeing that stain, it seemed he had written many times, and erased many times. Perhaps he was looking for a definition of spring—the spring that never comes, that only remains inside us.

In Bangladesh cricket, spring does not mean only a season. Spring means all those players who are still waiting for a chance. Spring means all those mothers and fathers who still dream. Spring means all those coaches who run their days on fifteen thousand taka while teaching boys. Their spring will come one day—but will it come?

That depends on us. If we chase only stars, spring will not come. But if we look toward the grassroots, if we invest in domestic cricket, if we put a smartphone in the hands of that thirteen-year-old boy, then spring will come. So the question is not mine, the question is all of ours—in this transfer window, will we buy stars, or build the future?