Recently, the finals of the Ultimate Pool women’s tournament featured two transgender women–Harriet Haynes and Lucy Smith. That fact alone seems to upset a lot of people. Social media comment sections lit up with cruelty, accusations, and worse. As a lifelong player and someone who cares deeply about this sport, I’ve been thinking a lot about what this moment means—not just for pool, but for who we are as a community.

Let me be clear: I believe transgender people have every right to exist, to live authentically, and yes, to compete in the sports they love. That shouldn’t be a controversial opinion, but somehow, it still is.

There’s a harmful narrative going around that trans women are just men in disguise, gaming the system to win. Aside from being dehumanizing, that idea is completely detached from reality. Transitioning isn’t a shortcut. It’s often a painful, complicated, and deeply personal journey, made even more difficult by today’s tempestuous political climate. The idea that someone would go through all of that just to win a niche tournament and pocket a small prize is absurd.

I once knew an openly gay, masc-presenting woman who faced regular harassment just for using the women’s restroom. She looked more like a man than some of the men I know, and strangers treated her like a threat. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was simply existing. I haven’t seen her in some time, but her story sticks with me. And I think about people like her—like those two players in the tournament—and what it costs them to live openly in a world that constantly questions their right to.

These players didn’t ask for extra attention. They showed up, they played, and they earned their place at the table. Isn’t that what competition is about?

We can have conversations about fairness in sports—those discussions are worth having. But there’s a big difference between thoughtful concern and outright cruelty. What I saw online wasn’t debate. It was dehumanization. It was rage masked as righteousness. And it has no place in this sport, or any other.

As someone who teaches and loves this game, here’s the message I believe in:

Lead with respect. Show compassion. Don’t be cruel.

If that sounds simple, it’s because it is.

Billiards should be a space where anyone who loves the game feels welcome. Not judged. Not ridiculed. Not erased. If we want to preserve the integrity of the sport, we should start by protecting the dignity of the people who play it.

We’re better than this. Or at least, we can be.