Cricket's New Ledger: Blockchain, Fan Tokens and the Real Accounting of Asian Cricket's Money

On the morning of 14 November 2026, the mist had not yet lifted beside the Ananda Mohan Club ground in Mymensingh. A coach of the under-16 side held out his phone. On the screen was a QR code, and beneath it small letters read: "Trial Fund — Public Ledger." The moment I scanned the code, a public blockchain ledger opened. Written in separate entries were the travel costs of a young goalkeeper, the bill for a new jersey, and an advance paid to a scout. No entry can be deleted; the time and date of every transaction sit in the open.

At first I thought it was the promotion of some new app, a passing enthusiasm. But when I checked the arithmetic, it became clear that blockchain has entered Asian cricket — not with big stages or loudspeakers, but in the quiet margin of a ledger. Before the headline, there was a field with no name; and the accounts of that field are now locked inside a digital book.

Asian cricket today is the largest cricket economy in the world. The media rights of the Indian Premier League (IPL) for the 2026 to 2027 cycle were sold by the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) for about 6.2 billion US dollars, roughly 48,390 crore rupees. That enormous money is shared among franchises, broadcasters and players. But a large slice of this flow leaves out the grassroots — district leagues, age-group sides, local coaches. It is precisely in that empty space that blockchain is setting its foot.

From years of watching matches on the ground, I can say that cricket's real accounts never show up on the scoreboard. In 2026, having watched 18 matches in the Mymensingh District Under-16 League, I recorded the birth years of 63 players. From that notebook I learned that understanding the flow of money means understanding the future of the game. Blockchain can do exactly that work, if it is used properly.

The most visible form of blockchain in Asian cricket is the fan token. Just as European football clubs sold tokens to supporters through platforms such as Socios, several Asian cricket franchises and leagues have issued digital tokens under the banner of fan ownership. Buying a token lets a supporter vote on club decisions — which song plays in the stadium, which jersey design is released. On the surface this sounds like democracy. In practice it is a kind of membership programme, in which the club takes money directly from the supporter's pocket.

For me the real question about fan tokens is not voting rights but ownership. If a supporter buys a token, what share of the club's revenue does he receive? The answer is close to zero. The club earns from the token; the supporter gets only a badge and a few votes. Here there is the transparency of a ledger, but no balance of power. The book is open, but the club owns the book.

The second layer is cricket's digital collectible, the NFT (non-fungible token). A spectacular catch, a last-over six — such moments have been sold as NFTs. The ownership of a unique digital item is written on the blockchain, so no one can counterfeit it. Platforms try to draw supporters by using the names of stars such as Virat Kohli, Babar Azam or Shakib Al Hasan. But the question is, what does a supporter actually get by buying the ownership of a catch's clip? He gets a proof — that he was a part of that moment. This is an economy of emotion, not of investment.

Personally, I see NFTs as the digital version of cricket memorabilia. Some people keep old match tickets, others jerseys. NFTs keep that collection alive online. But when a platform markets an NFT as an "investment opportunity", caution is needed. Between 2026 and 2026, NFT prices climbed worldwide and then crashed. Cricket's NFTs did not escape that storm either.

The third layer is the least discussed, but perhaps the most important — the smart contract. A smart contract is an automated agreement that acts on its own the moment a condition is met. Suppose that if a young player takes a certain number of wickets in a district league, a fixed sum of money reaches his academy automatically. No broker is needed here, no waiting on a manager. The condition and the money are both written in the same book.

In Asian cricket, player transfers and contracts are often complex, sometimes opaque. The transfer window is an archaeological excavation site; there I brush away rumours to find the actual contract. Smart contracts can make that excavation easier, because every condition and every instalment is written in the open. But caution is needed — code is written by human hands, and if the code has an error, the damage too becomes automatic.

The fourth layer is the accounting of grassroots money. In the district cricket of Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Nepal or Pakistan, the biggest problem with money is the lack of transparency. How much came in, who received it, where it was spent — the answers to these questions are often missing. A public ledger can solve part of this problem. If every donation and every expense is written in an open book, the room for corruption shrinks.

That QR code in Mymensingh was therefore the biggest signal for me. It was not the NFT of a star player, nor the token of a franchise. It was the travel-cost account of an ordinary academy — small, but verifiable. The grassroots game speaks softly; I turn up its volume with care.

The fifth layer is the stadium ticket. In a blockchain-based ticketing system, every ticket has a unique identity, so counterfeit tickets become nearly impossible. Supporters can buy and sell tickets directly, without touts in the black market. Big leagues in Asia are gradually introducing this system. But it is still experimental, and the technology costs more to publicise than to use.

This is where I have to be careful. A large part of blockchain in Asian cricket is still marketing, not technology. Many franchises announce a "blockchain partner", but it is essentially a sponsorship deal. Fan token prices often climb at first and then fall, leaving the ordinary supporter empty-handed. Those who print rumours first spread news quickly here too — but there is no evidence inside the news.

I do not chase breaking news; I sift the sediment it leaves behind. The same goes for blockchain. The question is — is this technology really changing a player's life, or only changing a club's balance sheet? There is as much noise in fan tokens and NFTs as there is work in smart contracts and transparent accounting — yet that is exactly where discussion is scarcest.

One more risk must not be forgotten. Data written on a blockchain cannot be deleted — that is its strength, and also its weakness. If a young player's financial information wrongly lands on a public ledger, it will never be erased. A player's privacy and the transparency of accounts — finding the balance between the two is the real challenge.

The question of transparency is not new in cricket. I have often seen the anger of spectators on the ground over referees not explaining their decisions — a decision appears on the big screen, but no explanation comes. If blockchain can give transparency to a ledger, then the transparency of decisions on the field still stands as a slogan. Technology clears up accounts, but it does not change the relations of power.

In the days ahead, blockchain will grow in Asian cricket, no doubt. But which way will it grow — as cheap marketing, or as genuine transparency? That depends on who runs this book. If the grassroots coach, the district league organiser and the ordinary supporter get the benefit of this book, it will strengthen the game's foundation. And if only the revenue of big franchises rises, it will remain just another shiny screen.

The next time the mist lifts over a ground in Mymensingh, I may see another QR code. There will be only one question — is the book behind that code truly open, or does it only look open?