“Pérez, #7, service point.”
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. hoja de anotacion voleibol
Don Tino pulled out a fresh hoja de anotación from his leather folder—a spare, untouched by time. He began copying the scores, but he left the crosses out. He rewrote Valeria’s line clean: “Pérez, #7, 12 puntos, 3 recepciones.” “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. He began copying the scores, but he left the crosses out
The referee stopped the clock. Don Tino looked at his sheet. Next to Valeria’s name, a new cross had bloomed.
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.
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.