His Own State Kicked Him Out: Baird Falls on the BBL Privatisation Sword

Mike Baird governed New South Wales. He ran the state's transport, health, and education budgets. He won an election by a landslide. But on Monday, he couldn't convince Cricket NSW to let him keep chairing Cricket Australia.

The former NSW premier informed the CA board that he would not seek re-election at next month's AGM, effectively ending a six-year tenure on the board and nearly four years as chair. The reason is as blunt as it is extraordinary: his own state association — the country's most powerful cricket body — told him he no longer had their backing.

The weapon that brought him down? The Big Bash League privatisation push that Baird and CEO Todd Greenberg have championed for months. NSW hates it. Queensland hates it. And when your home state won't even nominate you for an independent seat, the writing isn't on the wall — it's been spray-painted across the SCG.

At the heart of this crisis is a simple question with an impossibly complicated answer: should Big Bash League clubs be privately owned?

Baird and Greenberg's answer was yes — or at least, let the states decide. Their "self-determination" model, approved by the CA board earlier this month, allows each state cricket association to sell up to 49% of its BBL franchise to private investors. The Melbourne Renegades are set to become the first club sold — potentially a 100% stake — with merchant bank Raine Group already seeking expressions of interest and hoping to identify a preferred buyer before the BBL season starts on December 12.

The pitch is seductive: private capital unlocks growth, professionalises club operations, and brings the BBL into line with global franchise cricket models. With 20 to 30 interested parties reportedly in the mix — including up to six IPL franchise owners — the money is real.

But NSW sees a different picture entirely. If private investors take a cut of BBL profits, less money flows back into grassroots cricket. The Sydney Sixers and Sydney Thunder are among the league's most valuable franchises. NSW has no intention of selling either.

Into the wreckage steps David Boon — a man whose greatest claim to fame before today was either his 107 Tests for Australia or the possibly apocryphal story about consuming 52 beers on a flight from Sydney to London in 1989.

Boon was appointed to the CA board in 2025 after stints as an ICC match referee and a member of Australia's national selection panel from 2000 to 2011. He's a Tasmanian, which puts him firmly in the pro-privatisation camp by state affiliation, but his reputation as a straight shooter and consensus-builder will be tested immediately.

His first job: hold Australian cricket together while the Renegades sale goes through, NSW fumes, player contract negotiations remain unresolved, and the Ashes loom on the horizon from November.

If Baird went down, he didn't go quietly. His resignation statement doubled as a victory lap — and a pointed reminder that, whatever NSW thinks of privatisation, the numbers under his watch were exceptional.

"This year CA will report record revenue, profit, attendance and viewership, and most importantly a 40% increase in participation over the past four years," Baird said. "With recent decisions on the Big Bash I also believe the long-term sustainability is assured."

He also praised captains Pat Cummins, Mitch Marsh, Alyssa Healy, and Sophie Molineux, and called CEO Todd Greenberg "the best sports administrator in the country" — a backing that will resonate loudly given that Greenberg was equally central to the privatisation push.

Baird's departure also ends his role at the ICC, where he had formed a close working relationship with chair Jay Shah. That's a loss of influence that extends well beyond domestic politics.

Strip away the personalities and the politics, and the BBL privatisation debate comes down to two irreconcilable visions of Australian cricket's future.

On one side: the modernisers, who point to the IPL, the Hundred, and SA20 as proof that private money transforms franchise leagues. They see a BBL that's been stagnating in ratings and relevance, and argue that fresh capital — from IPL owners who know how to build global cricket brands — is the only way to compete.

On the other: the traditionalists, led by NSW and Queensland, who see the BBL as a vehicle for funding the entire cricket ecosystem. Every dollar that goes to a private investor is a dollar that doesn't flow down to suburban clubs, junior pathways, and regional development. NSW's argument is simple: Cricket Australia is already posting record revenue. Why bring in outside investors who'll demand a return?

It's the same tension that runs through every professional sport, from English football's ownership debates to American college athletics. But in Australian cricket, where the state associations have wielded power since before Federation, the stakes feel existential.

Mike Baird's departure isn't the end of BBL privatisation — it's the beginning of the messy middle. The Renegades sale will proceed. IPL money will come knocking. And Australian cricket will have to decide, franchise by franchise, whether the short-term cash injection is worth the long-term restructuring of power.

What makes this story fascinating isn't just the boardroom politics — it's the irony. Baird governed Australia's largest state. He navigated budgets worth tens of billions. But he couldn't navigate the politics of a cricket board where six state associations hold the balance of power and two of them decided they'd rather lose their chair than lose their BBL profits.

Boon inherits a mess, but also an opportunity. The Ashes start in November. The BBL season kicks off in December. A World Cup cycle is underway. If he can hold the coalition together through the Renegades sale and keep NSW from going nuclear, he'll have earned the chair permanently. If not, the next resignation letter might not be so polite.

One thing is certain: the days of Australian cricket governing itself as a cosy federation of states are over. Private money is at the door. The only question now is who opens it — and what they let in.