The sheets were always the same: a grid of dreams. Columns for names, rows for points, tiny boxes for substitutions and timeouts. To the players shrieking on the court, it was just bureaucracy. To Don Tino, it was the truest story of the game.
Don Tino smiled and handed her the fresh, clean sheet. “Here. The true story.”
After the game, the young assistant coach came to Don Tino. “I need the official hoja de anotación for the league records,” she said. hoja de anotacion voleibol
But tonight, Don Tino had won. He had outscored a ghost on his own scoresheet.
The lights steadied. On the court, Valeria stood up, stretching. “It’s gone,” she said, confused. “The pain just… vanished.” The sheets were always the same: a grid of dreams
As he finished, the gym lights flickered. The air turned cold. The old, torn sheet on the table next to him fluttered and lifted into the air, as if an invisible hand was holding it. Then, slowly, it tore itself in half down the middle.
“Pérez, #7, service point.”
But Don Tino knew. His sheet was a map of fate. He remembered the old story: the first scorekeeper of the league, a man named Don Joaquín, had died of a heart attack during a championship game forty years ago. They said his spirit never left the table.
He folded the ghost-marked original—the one with the crosses and the torn corner—and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He walked out into the cool Mexican night, leaving the empty gym behind. He knew Don Joaquín was still sitting at that table, waiting for the next game, the next pencil stroke. To Don Tino, it was the truest story of the game
But something was wrong. Midway through the second set, he saw it. In the “anotaciones” column—a space he never touched—a small, faded mark appeared. A cross. Like a tiny grave.
For thirty years, Don Tino had been the official scorekeeper for the San Miguel de Allende women’s volleyball league. His weapon of choice was a worn, wooden pencil, sharpened with a pocketknife, and his bible was the hoja de anotación —the official scoresheet.
