Anotacion Voleibol — Hoja De

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.

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 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.

But tonight, Don Tino had won. He had outscored a ghost on his own scoresheet. hoja de anotacion voleibol

Las Panteras won the fifth set, 15-13.

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.

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. But something was wrong

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.

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.

“Pérez, #7, service point.”

After the game, the young assistant coach came to Don Tino. “I need the official hoja de anotación for the league records,” she said.

“Water,” Valeria gasped, clutching her side. “It’s just a cramp.”