Tape-Tennis Cricket: Bangladesh’s thriving informal sports economy awaits regulation
In recent years, tape-tennis cricket has evolved into a parallel economy in Bangladesh. But what it lacks is institutional oversight. There is no governing body, no standard contracts, no injury insurance, and no long-term career security
On a humid afternoon in Moulvibazar, Bablu Ahmed flips open a worn-out diary—its pages dense with numbers, names, and dates. Each line tells the story of a match: runs scored, wickets taken, and money earned.
"I have been writing every little detail about the matches since 2014. How many runs I made, how many matches I played every season, etc. Last season alone, I played 148 matches, which is less than what I used to play regularly, which is around 200, including domestic and international," Bablu said.
For Bablu, now 31, tape-tennis cricket is not a pastime. It is a profession, a marketplace, and, increasingly, an industry.
"There was a time when I got Tk5,000 per match, but now a player can even get Tk20,000", he added.
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Bablu's journey mirrors the rise of tape-tennis cricket in Bangladesh.
"I started playing for money at 20, when match fees were around Tk1,500–2,000. Today, I command anywhere between Tk25,000 and Tk50,000 per match, which was unimaginable a decade ago."
"I was among the first to push the payment higher," he says. "Now, many players are earning Tk15,000–20,000 regularly."
His yearly earnings reflect that shift. What once stood at around Tk10–15 lakh per season has, in peak years, climbed to Tk30–35 lakh in the past few years.
In 2023, Bablu built a bungalow with his earnings from tape-tennis cricket—a tangible symbol of what the sport can offer. His trophy cabinet and meticulously kept diary stand as records of a career carved outside conventional cricket.
"Tape tennis is an established industry in India. They have different boards, clubs, and rules that deal with tape tennis only. On social media, some pages get thousands of views and shares. Inspired by that, I started my page 'Bablu 33' and posted regularly. My income was bolstered by social media monetisation by then," Bablu added.
His YouTube channel Legacy Cricket and Facebook page Bablu 33 turned him into a recognisable figure—earning him the nickname "Helicopter Bablu" for his signature shot.
But beyond the persona lies a revealing statistic: In one season, Bablu played over 212 matches, sometimes as many as three to four games a day during stints in India. The "season," as he defines it, stretches from one Ramadan to the next, approximately 8-9 months. However, increasingly, there is no real off-season anymore.
"Earlier, games happened mostly in winter. Now I have matches almost every day."
A parallel economy
Tape tennis cricket—played with a taped tennis ball, minimal gear, and flexible rules—has long been a grassroots version of the sport. From local gully to school fields, this is the way cricket is played. But in recent years, it has evolved into a parallel economy.
Prize money for tournaments now ranges between Tk1-3 lakh. Informal contracts, player transfers, and even bidding wars are becoming common in certain regions.
"There are individuals, especially expatriates and companies that sponsor these games and tournaments. It is a great way to advertise. For example, Layla group is an example, they sponsor many local matches and tournaments," said Shahidul Islam, another tape tennis player based in Dhaka.
Players are 'hired' for matches—locally known as khep—based purely on performance.
"There is no age limit, no fixed structure. If you perform well, you are in and you get money for it. That's it", Bablu said.
For Maruf Hasan, a 22-year-old university student, playing tape tennis as a khep player brings pocket money and sometimes an opportunity to contribute to the family expenses.
"Sometimes I earn Tk40,000 a month which is a lot for someone like me who belongs to a middle-class family. I bear the expense of my own education, and sometimes help my father too", Maruf said.
There was a time when Maruf wanted to get admitted to BKSP (Bangladesh Krira Shikkha Protishtan), but his family was against it. "Getting into sports is almost a luxury for us. So I didn't. But I love cricket, so tape tennis allows me to keep the connection".
This meritocratic, almost mercenary system has opened doors for many who fall outside the formal cricket pipeline. Bablu himself once attempted age-level cricket but missed out due to being slightly overage. Tape tennis became his alternative—and eventually, his identity.
"I believe this is the golden era of tape tennis," he says. "It has created jobs and kept many young people away from anti-social activities. Drugs have spread widely in many areas. If more and more games and matches are organised, these young kids will participate."
The ones who step away
Yet for some people, the choice is not as easy.
Arnob, who played as an opener for Chuadanga district's Under-18 team and later for Rajshahi University's main squad in 2017, once dreamt of wearing the national jersey. His cricketing journey took him across districts—Jhenaidah, Kushtia, Naogaon—building a solid semi-professional career.
But timing and structure worked against him.
"In university, exams and cricket season overlapped—December to February," he says. "I had to choose. I chose academics."
Today, Arnob is in Dhaka, preparing for government job exams. Marriage and family responsibilities have made a return to cricket unlikely, though he misses his cricket pitch days.
"Sometimes I feel like leaving everything and going back to the field for two or three years," he admits. "But in reality, it's not possible."
His story exposes a structural gap in Bangladesh's cricket ecosystem—where formal pathways are narrow and unforgiving. Those who cannot transition into professional cricket often find themselves at a crossroads — abandon the sport or move into informal circuits.
Unlike Bablu's high-paying circuit, Arnob's experience with local and district-level cricket reflects a different reality. Payments are minimal or non-existent. In age-group tournaments, players might receive a daily allowance of around Tk500 with meals. Club cricket, especially outside major cities, is often non-profit.
"You play to prove yourself," he says. "If you perform, maybe you get selected for district teams."
Tape tennis, in contrast, offers immediate financial incentives. Arnob has occasionally played such matches, earning around Tk2,000 per game, with total earnings reaching Tk40,000–50,000 over time. He mentions players in areas like Rangpur who regularly participate in khep matches, earning enough to support their families.
"It works like the Indian Premier League (IPL), on a smaller scale," he says. "Captains or organisers keep track of good players and call them up."
Despite the growth of tape tennis, Arnob points to a cultural shift that may threaten the sport's grassroots.
"Kids don't play like we used to," he says. "Now they are busy with phones, games like PUBG. Fields are often empty."
This decline in everyday play contrasts sharply with the commercial boom at the upper levels of tape tennis. While top players are busier than ever, the pipeline of young talent appears to be shrinking.
An unregulated boom
What emerges is a fragmented but thriving ecosystem—one that exists largely outside institutional oversight. There is no governing body, no standard contracts, no injury insurance, and no long-term career security.
Bablu himself has faced injuries, including ligament issues that forced him to scale back his fast bowling (he once clocked 127.6 km/h). Yet, like most players, he navigates recovery and workload on his own.
His vision for the future is clear: "We need a structured system—a board, professional leagues, something like the BPL."
Such formalisation could stabilise earnings, protect players, and integrate tape tennis into the broader cricket framework. There are already early signs of league-style tournaments emerging.
While Bablu builds his dream house with the money, for Arnob, the story is more introspective—a reminder of roads not taken.
Between them lies the full spectrum of Bangladesh's tape tennis reality: aspiration, improvisation, and adaptation. One found a profession in it. The other, a lingering absence.
Together, they reveal a sport that is no longer just a street game, but not yet a fully recognised industry—thriving in the space in between.
