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.
But tonight, Don Tino had won. He had outscored a ghost on his own 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.
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
He rubbed it with his thumb. It didn't smudge. Pencil marks don't appear on their own.
The referee stopped the clock. Don Tino looked at his sheet. Next to Valeria’s name, a new cross had bloomed.
The lights steadied. On the court, Valeria stood up, stretching. “It’s gone,” she said, confused. “The pain just… vanished.” He folded the ghost-marked original—the one with the
Las Panteras won the fifth set, 15-13.
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.
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 tonight, Don Tino had won
Don Tino smiled and handed her the fresh, clean sheet. “Here. The true story.”
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.”
“Water,” Valeria gasped, clutching her side. “It’s just a cramp.”
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.