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EVERYTHING changed in 1999. When Bangladesh defeated Pakistan in Northampton, the entire nation went crazy. The streets of Dhaka became a parade. On Eid, flags hung from balconies like laundry, fireworks cracked over rooftops, people hugged strangers and children skipped school. The following morning’s newspapers were filled with pride, full-page spreads, cricket, and no advertisements. Overnight, two men you may have passed a week before became legendary. It also felt unreal because it was the 1992 world champions, Pakistan. Paltan Maidan was jammed when the team got home. The prime minister arrived. Thousands of fans did the same. To catch a glimpse, some people scaled trees. Although football had not disappeared, it was beginning to seem like a thing of the past. Cricket didn’t knock courteously. People listened as it rushed in and took the microphone. Out of love, not loyalty.

In 2025, the crowd came back, but to see Hamza Choudhury at Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport. Born in England, raised in Leicester academies, Hamza played Premier League football for Leicester City and Watford. He chose to represent Bangladesh, citing his roots. Fans waved flags and shouted his name. He hadn’t played a match yet. He didn’t need to. For them, his choice was already a win.


Football used to dominate Bangladesh’s heart before cricket captured the country’s soul. Huge crowds attended the Dhaka League. City streets were transformed into processions during Abahani and Mohammedan matches. The Bangabandhu National Stadium is completely packed. As fans poured into the streets from alleys and avenues, waving club flags like holy totems, the streets became processions. The National Stadium of Bangabandhu? Overflowing with people. Deafening. Crazy. Chants resounded, songs roared, and tempers flared over controversial offside calls that would lead to arguments that lasted for days or even weeks. Several footballers were well-known individuals who could be seen in every store and on every street. After netting Bangladesh’s first goal in a World Cup qualifying match, one player rose to national hero status.

Soon, a shift initiated. Bangladesh Cricket Team was granted Test status in 2000. They hosted the ICC Champions Trophy two years later. Cricket expanded with every international match. It provided a worldwide platform, television coverage and structure. The growth of urban cable networks and satellite TV coincided with cricket’s ascent. All houses suddenly had a view of the Tigers. Cricket had evolved beyond a sport by the late 2000s. It developed into a common tongue.

However, time continued to pass as usual. Cricket was loud, unrelenting, and uncontested for more than 20 years. Like an old flame, football faded, remembered more than lived. Still, there was a stir. An uneasiness. A desire. Then he came, almost like an angel emerging from the edges of a lost script. The game began to breathe once more.

For nostalgia, Hamza did not appear. He wasn’t looking for notoriety or influence. He meant it when he chose Bangladesh. He was born in Leicester and tested in the Premier League, yet he entered Dhaka as if it had always been planned. The crowd leaned in when he made his debut against India. Not out of habit, not courteously. They were confined. His every touch felt significant. There was no discussion about the outcome following the 2–2 draw. They were debating in comment sections, sharing videos of his tackles, and enlarging grainy selfies taken from the stands. Something changed. For the first time in a long time, football felt like it belonged. Not perfect, not polished. Just alive, being watched at last.

After him, players like Canada-born Shamit Shome of Atletico Ottawa, Fahamedul Islam, who was raised in Italy through the youth systems of Spezia and Sampdoria, and Cuba Mitchell, a midfielder for Sunderland U-21, started to show up on squad lists. All of a sudden, Bangladesh was scheduled to play Singapore at home. Even with Tk100 tickets, BFF had trouble filling half the stands not long ago. The cheapest ones were Tk 400 this time, and they were still completely sold out. People couldn’t wait to watch these boys juggle the ball and see what appeared to be authentic football once more. The front row was something that people were prepared to pay for. The crowd was not dissatisfied despite Bangladesh’s 2–1 defeat. The public’s perception of football appeared promising for the first time in a long time.

Under new leadership, the BFF also appeared more serious. The organisation hosted its inaugural ‘BFF Next Global Star’ trial at Dhaka’s National Stadium towards the end of June 2025. Under the guidance of the technical director and national coach, approximately fifty players from fourteen different countries, ranging in age from U-17 to U-23, took part. Public enthusiasm ensued. In the markets of Dhaka, football jerseys made a comeback. League games in the area were buzzing once more. There was a noticeable increase in street football. The trials were better than expected, and football seemed to be gaining attention once more for the first time in a long time.

On the contrary, the cricket team looked adrift, struggling for rhythm, identity and attention. Off the pitch, exits accelerated. People, too, had begun to grow indifferent. Without their national heroes, the emotional pull had faded. One key figure was absent due to personal considerations. Another confirmed retirement from internationals in January 2025. A health scare at a Dhaka Premier League match closed that chapter. Additional senior players exited the same month. The team now moves on youth and potential, but the spine is gone. The public pulled back. TV ratings declined. Stadiums emptied. Cricket remained, but its central place in national life no longer felt guaranteed.

What’s more, the Bangladesh Cricket Board has seen a rapid succession of presidents over the past 12 months. One president stepped down after more than a decade at the helm. Within months, new leadership was removed via a no-confidence motion, and an interim president was unanimously elected by the National Sports Council.

Bangladesh recently defeated Sri Lanka in their first-ever T20I series in Colombo. The local crowd was stunned into silence as the final match concluded under the lights. Pakistan followed. Bangladesh won the T20I series 2–1 at home. The first time Bangladesh bowled out Pakistan in Twenty20 Internationals, Mustafizur Rahman assisted in their dismissal for 110. Fans flocked to Sher-e-Bangla in Mirpur. Every seat was occupied. Each run was a celebration.

Cricket seemed to be reviving at last. A decentralisation drive has been initiated off the field by the BCB’s new leadership. Pilot projects for regional ‘mini-BCBs’ are underway in Chattogram and Rajshahi. At the upazila level, coaches are assigned. Plans for infrastructure are growing outside of Dhaka. Youth leagues are undergoing a transformation. The direction seems purposeful.

Maybe it’s wild to think Bangladesh can do both — bowl out a team under floodlights and raise a Premier League midfielder on foreign soil who walks off a plane like a returning war hero. Maybe it’s greedy to want packed stadiums on Friday for football and again on Sunday for cricket. But Bangladesh has never been polite about passion. This is a place where kids play barefoot in alleys and dream of both the Maracana and Lord’s. Where flags don’t pick sides and roars don’t discriminate. So no, it’s not about one game replacing the other. It’s about a country ridiculous enough, stubborn enough, loud enough to chase greatness in both. Why not score goals and centuries in the same breath? Why not have it all?

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Al-Wasi Auhon studies at North South University with a scholarship.