Say you’re practicing piano. You’ve been playing since you were a teen, mostly for fun. You’re working on a new, difficult piece. Also, you’re kind of hungry and distracted and you just gave yourself a manicure that’s still kind of wet. A raccoon comes to the window.
When that raccoon opens the window with his knobbly little thumb and says, “That song is actually supposed to be played in C minor, and you need to curl your fingers more. Humans never curl their fingers enough.” Do you think “Oh, maybe he has a point”? No. You think, “Why the fuck is this raccoon talking to me? What the fuck does this raccoon know about piano? Why is he telling me some piano 101 shit? I know I have to curl my fingers, but I’m not trying to ruin my ombré right now. I’m just killing time before I meet Lucy for dinner.”
It doesn’t matter if you find out later that the raccoon is a famous racoon pianist, renowned across the forest for his delicate sonatas. He came into your space and offered you unsolicited criticism without context. He is a douche.
This happened to me the other day, except instead of piano it was ultimate frisbee, and instead of a raccoon it was some fucking guy.
I’ve played ultimate for almost 10 years, but I’m not an elite player. I used to play competitively, but now I play for fun. If I wanted to play for glory and trophies, I would try out for a team whose goal is glory and trophies. Instead, I pick up on rec teams and play the odd tournament. Going from university women’s varsity to mixed rec has been a gross reminder that playing sports with dudes involves a constant stream of gentle derision. It’s not worth recounting everything this raccoon said to me, but basically he critiqued my form when I was warming up (with an injury, no less), then asked my name, then insinuated I was overreacting when I told him what he was doing was rude. (He’s, of course, not the first dude to assume he knows what’s best for me in ultimate. When I started showing up at pickup games, dudes would routinely explain the force to me, tell me I should be handler/cutter instead of what I was doing. Or lecture me on cutting from the stack, then dance around in the lane after getting looked off like 5 times.)
Stuff like this used to happen when I was a kid. I stopped playing playground soccer when boys got mad that I wasn’t good and wouldn’t pass to me. I stopped playing playground basketball when boys got mad I was good and wouldn’t pass to me. Six of one, you know? I spent a decade or so playing on all-girls teams, cultivating the unique rivalries of traveling Vs. school season and making sure to eat enough protein on game days. But when the ships have come in and those choice few have gone off to play in the majors and D1, you know what’s left? Social and recreational sports. It’s a fucking schoolyard all over again.
Sports ladies of the world, when you start playing organized, low-level sports (or really any sports) out in the adult sphere, you are gonna meet a raccoon. Probably more than one. You’re gonna think what he said maybe wasn’t such a big deal, he was just trying to be nice, actually he has a point… No, girl. No. Raccoons are grimy, entitled little hairsacs. They are saying so many shitty things when they offer you unsolicited advice on your game.
They are saying:
I am more skilled than you. (Without demonstrating this and without a comprehensive knowledge of your skill level.)
I know more than you. (Again, without demonstrating this and without a comprehensive knowledge of your skill level.)
You have to listen to me. (Without asking if you want to hear him.)
WHY WOULD YOU LISTEN TO A FUCKING RACCOON? I want you to overreact. I want you to say “Dude, shut up. Your advice means dick-all to me because I don’t know who you are and I don’t give a shit what you think about how I play,” and then shoo him out of your space with a broom. If he turns out to be the King of Sports, well, bro knows now to maybe introduce himself before shooting his fucking mouth off, doesn’t he? These off-brand weasels are not gonna stop until we make it clear that shit is unacceptable.
Three people have the right to criticize your play: coaches, captains, and trusted mentors. Even if you are a novice. No, actually, especially if you are a novice. You’re doing mad work trying to remember rules and create some muscle memory. You agree to a dialogue when you enter into a coach/player or captain/player relationship or when you ask your pals for advice. Rando Raccoon on the sideline? He can fuck right off. Even if he’s Joel fucking Silver, I don’t wanna hear his comments unless I ask for them.
A moral for dudes who play mixed sports: don’t offer women advice. If you just can’t bear watching someone fail at something you could so clearly help them with, that’s your fucking problem. Deal with that. Don’t put your saviour complex onto someone else. She’s getting there. She’s doing it her way. She’s practicing how she’s practicing. You don’t know why she’s there. Maybe she just wants a chill environment to run around in. If you want to play on a team whose goal is glory and trophies, go try out for that team. Hate to break it to you, but you might not make it. If you’re a better player than she is, she knows. She might ask you for advice once she can tell you’re not a total jackass.
A moral for ladies who play mixed sports: Go get your sweat on. If some raccoon tries to chatter at you, tell him all the fucks you have to give about his unsolicited opinion are in the bottom of a compost bin.
