He loved the shorthand. A tiny triangle for an ace. A circle for an error. A dash for a perfect reception. The sheet filled up like a musical score.
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.
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. hoja de anotacion voleibol
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.
Don Tino smiled and handed her the fresh, clean sheet. “Here. The true story.” He loved the shorthand
He rubbed it with his thumb. It didn't smudge. Pencil marks don't appear on their own.
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. A dash for a perfect reception
Las Panteras won the fifth set, 15-13.
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