By Vinay Rao
Once upon a time, Indian parents wanted their sons to become engineers, doctors, or at least government officers. In 2026, they want only one thing: a state cap and, if destiny permits, a dugout selfie in the Indian Premier League.
Welcome to the golden age of cricket — where talent is optional, but liquidity is essential.
In Telangana, the going “investment” for a hopeful lad (or lass) to find a berth in state teams — from U-12 to U-23, including women’s squads — reportedly ranges between ₹15–20 lakh. A small price, really, for parents who consider it an advance booking for fame, Instagram verification, and possibly a villa in Jubilee Hills. After all, why waste money on IIT coaching when a cover drive can compound faster than mutual funds?
Naturally, not everyone wins the auction. Because, as insiders whisper, the junior selection committee sometimes prefers the “highest bidder” over the highest run-scorer. Performance charts may fluctuate, but bank balances are wonderfully consistent. And when merit makes a brief appearance, it is often politely asked to wait outside the pavilion.
The result? State teams performing in major BCCI tournaments with all the confidence of a debutant facing Jasprit Bumrah on a green top. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. When selection becomes a marketplace, scoreboards become balance sheets.
But wait — the real masterstroke comes from the IPL ecosystem itself. The grapevine buzzes with an irresistible “rate card” floating around cricket circles:
- IPL boundary ball boys – ₹25,000
- IPL net bowler – ₹50,000 (with “full chances” to become a future star)
- IPL hotel selfie – ₹5,000
- Player signing with jersey – “rate later, final.”
Engineers slog four years for campus placements. Doctors survive a decade of exams. Meanwhile, a decent yorker in the nets could allegedly open doors to franchise contracts worth not less than ₹50 lakh a month. Who needs stethoscopes when you have slower balls?
The satire would be hilarious if it weren’t painfully believable. Cricket in India was once a sport. Then it became a religion. Now, it resembles a startup ecosystem — high entry cost, speculative returns, and plenty of angel investors disguised as “well-wishers.”
Parents aren’t foolish; they’re responding to market signals. When one IPL auction can transform an uncapped player into a crorepati overnight, ambition naturally mutates into desperation. The dream is intoxicating. The supply chain merely monetizes it.
Of course, somewhere in this carnival, genuine talent still exists — practicing under streetlights, playing with torn gloves, hoping that someone notices skill over sponsorship. But in a system where the auction sometimes begins before the first ball is bowled, purity is a poor negotiator.
So yes, cricket is India’s most sought-after sport. Not because it builds character. But because it builds portfolios.
And as long as the bidding paddles stay raised, the Pay & Play Premier League will continue — proudly sponsored by aspiration, ambition, and a very healthy cash flow.
