I checked my ticket twice. Rajiv Gandhi Stadium, East Stand upper tier, Hyderabad. This was definitely our home ground.
But yellow? Fucking yellow everywhere.
Not just scattered pockets of away supporters, but a complete takeover. Row after row of Chennai jerseys. Dhoni’s name printed on 90% of them. In Hyderabad. In OUR stadium. CSK jerseys as far as I could see, drowning out the orange that should have dominated our home ground. I checked my ticket twice. Had I accidentally traveled to Chepauk? Was I in chennai?
I’ve been an SRH fan since before they were SRH. Before the Orange Army, before Warner, before Rashid. I was there screaming for Deccan Chargers when Gilchrist smashed sixes into the stands. My dad took me to my first match in April 2008 when I was 12. I still have the faded DC flag he bought me.
For years, summer meant IPL. From the inaugural season through 2016, I rarely missed a home match. Then life took me elsewhere for studies. Six years away, following scores from afar, watching highlights when I could, missing the stadium experience that had defined my summers.
Last season, finally back home, I was desperate to reconnect with that feeling. SRH vs CSK. Our fortress. The tickets cost ₹3,200 each now – a staggering increase from the ₹250 my father paid for the same seat in the East stand sixteen years earlier – but this wasn’t about money. This was about home coming.
The match itself was strange. SRH played brilliantly. Cummins’ captaincy was spot on. Abhishek Sharma smashed them all over the park. We dominated from start to finish.
But the atmosphere? When Bhuvneshwar got Rachin early, the silence was deafening. When Abhishek hit a six, the cheers were scattered and muted. And as SRH’s victory became inevitable, I watched something I’d never seen before – yellow jerseys leaving our stadium early because their team was losing.
In our home.
The realization hit me like a bouncer to the face: This isn’t cricket anymore. This is entertainment. This is business. This is capitalism at its most efficient and most soulless.
And it’s not just happening in Hyderabad. The next week, I watched Punjab’s stadium turned Mumbai blue. The week after, Kolkata’s purple swallowed by Bangalore’s red.
It’s not just that traveling fans are showing up in bigger numbers. That would be a sign of a growing, engaged league. No, the real problem is that home fans are being priced out of their own stadiums, pushed aside in favor of those casuals willing to pay more. This yellow invasion isn’t some accident. It’s by design – the inevitable outcome of a business model that prioritizes short-term revenue over long-term cultural investment.
The numbers tell the story. According to analysis by sports economist Sharda Ugra, IPL ticket prices have increased by an average of 312% since 2008, while India’s Consumer Price Index rose just 102% in the same period. In 2008, 65% of all IPL tickets were priced below ₹1,000 (adjusted for inflation). Today, that figure has plummeted to 22%.
For my specific seat in Hyderabad’s East Stand upper tier, the price journey is even more stark:
- 2008: ₹250
- 2012: ₹750
- 2016: ₹1,500
- 2024: ₹3,200
- 2028: ?
That’s a 1,180% increase over 16 years – nearly six times the rate of inflation.
The Mechanism: Textbook Market Segmentation
This isn’t just inflation, it’s a deliberate pricing out of certain economic classes, that’s exclusion.
The IPL has adopted European football’s most exclusionary practices without implementing any of its fan protections. The strategy has three components:
- Dynamic pricing models that reward affluence: Ticket prices fluctuate based on demand, just like airline seats. The more people who want in and bigger the match, the higher the cost. Since franchises prioritise financials over fostering home support, they don’t mind if away fans or casuals outbid locals.
- Corporate hospitality dominance: Nearly 40% of premium seating is now reserved for corporate clients, sponsors, influencers, celebrities and VIPs, according to a 2023 report by SportzFront. These are spectators, not fans – they’re for networking, entertainment and leisure, not passion and loyalty.
- Unchecked secondary markets: Unlike major international leagues that strictly regulate reselling, IPL tickets move through layers of distribution with resale markets setting astronomical prices. According to ticket aggregator BookMyShow data, SRH vs CSK tickets last season were being resold at markups of 150-400%.
What’s Being Lost
What’s disappearing isn’t just crowd atmosphere. It’s identity. The IPL was built on city-based franchises to replicate the regional rivalries that make sports truly great. Former IPL Commissioner Lalit Modi confirmed this in a 2022 interview: “The connection between teams and their home cities was meant to be the league’s backbone.”
Sports sociologist Satish Alemda explains the cultural implications: “When ticket prices exceed what the average fan can afford, you don’t just change who attends – you change the cultural meaning of the sport itself.”
Cricket historian Ramachandra Guha puts it more bluntly: “Cricket in India was traditionally the great equalizer – where the clerk and the CEO could sit side by side in shared passion. The current pricing strategy threatens this democratic tradition.”
Is it too late?
There are proven models that balance profitability with fan culture:
- Mandatory home allocation: Most of the global football clubs must reserve at least 51% of tickets for members and local supporters. IPL franchises should guarantee that minimum 60% of seats are reserved for home supporters with verified local addresses.
- Affordable sections: Every stadium should designate at least 25% of seats as “community seating” with prices capped at ₹500-750 per match. These sections should be immune from dynamic pricing models.
- Fan Cards and Loyalty Programs: Implement systems that reward consistent support, not just spending power. The EPL’s membership card system provides tiered access based on attendance history.
- Secondary market regulation: Implement strict resale policies with price caps (no more than 10% above face value) and identity verification, as seen in the ATP tennis circuit.
We Built This League. Don’t Price Us Out.
I still have my faded Deccan Chargers flag from 2008. The fabric has worn thin, but the memories woven into it remain vivid, first match with my father, celebrations with strangers, the collective gasp of thousands when Gilchrist connected with a six.
That flag represents something pure – a connection between a team and its city, a bond between father and son, a tradition meant to pass on.
But when I look around the stadium now, I don’t see that connection. I see commerce where there should be community. I see the erasing of cricket’s most democratic promise – that passion, not purchasing power, is what binds us to this game.
We were there when the IPL was just an idea. We filled the stands before the sponsors arrived. We bought the jerseys, flags, caps, learned the chants, created the culture that made this league worth billions. We are not just customers. We are the foundation. The very soul of what makes cricket matter.
We built this league. Don’t price us out.