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.
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.
He rubbed it with his thumb. It didn't smudge. Pencil marks don't appear on their own. hoja de anotacion voleibol
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.”
The referee stopped the clock. Don Tino looked at his sheet. Next to Valeria’s name, a new cross had bloomed.
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. He loved the shorthand
Tonight was the final. Las Panteras vs. Las Águilas. The gym smelled of floor wax and sweat. As the referee blew the whistle, Don Tito licked his pencil lead and began to write.
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. A dash for a perfect reception
He looked up. The game continued. The ball flew back and forth. Las Panteras’ captain, a fierce woman named Valeria, dove for a ball and slammed her hip on the floor. She didn’t get up.
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.