【日记】六年级快乐的课间日记500字：课间十分钟的拔河预赛

我是我们班绳尾的那个人

11月3日 星期二 晴

今天课间，体育老师吹哨集合，说下周年级拔河比赛，今天课间十分钟做预赛，四班对六班。哨声就是集合令，我们班的二十个人从楼道、操场、厕所往回跑，两分钟在篮球架下站成了两排。老师现场组队，按个子排，我个子不算高，但老师说我力气沉，让我站绳尾，说绳尾的人是锚，锚不动，船就翻不了。

绳子是粗麻绳，中间系一根红布条，地上画了一条白线。我和六班的绳尾互相看了一眼，他比我高半个头，我心里咯噔一下。哨一响，我们往后倒着拉，脚蹬地，身子往后斜。红布条先往他们那边去了，一寸，两寸。我们班有人急了，喊：稳住！别猛拉！是班长喊的，他说猛拉会乱，要一起数着拉。我们开始喊一二、一二，二十个人的脚一起蹬，绳子咯吱咯吱响，手心像被小火烧着。

加油声是从后排女生那里起来的，越喊越响，连隔壁班趴在窗台上的人都跟着喊。那声音砸在绳子上，我觉得绳子都没那么沉了。红布条停住，又慢慢往我们这边挪。我站在绳尾，身子几乎坐到地上，鞋底的灰蹭出两道印。最后哨响，我们赢了。全班扑过来抱成一团，我的手心红了两大条，不疼，反而想给它鼓掌。

赢的原因我们后来讨论过。一个是班长那句稳住，当时要是跟着猛拉，绳子一松一紧反而容易被拽过去。一个是加油声，喊到后来连体育老师都朝我们点头。还有一个是莫小北不在我们队，他要是摔了我们就乱了，这是后话，今天先不说。十分钟的预赛，从集合到散场，比四十分钟的课还长，因为它每一秒都在用力。

回教室的路上班长说，绳尾是功臣，因为最后那两寸是我把身子压住才挪过来的。我有点不好意思。我以前觉得拔河最出风头的是排头，今天才知道，看不见的那个人有时候最要紧。日记快写完了，手心还热着。下周正式赛，锚还是我。

I Was the Man at the End of Our Rope

November 3, Tuesday, sunny.

At break today the PE teacher blew his whistle to assemble us and announced that the grade tug-of-war contest is next week, and the ten-minute break of today would hold a preliminary: Class Four against Class Six. The whistle is our assembly order. The twenty of us ran back from the stairwells, the playground, and the restrooms, and within two minutes stood in two rows under the basketball hoop. The teacher formed the team on the spot, lining us by height. I am not tall, but he said my strength sits low, so he put me at the end of the rope, saying the man at the end is the anchor: if the anchor does not move, the boat cannot capsize.

The rope is thick hemp, a red cloth strip tied at the middle, a white line painted on the ground. The anchor of Class Six and I looked at each other. He is half a head taller than me, and my heart dropped. When the whistle blew, we leaned back and pulled, feet kicking the ground, bodies slanting backward. The red strip moved toward their side first, one inch, two inches. Someone in our class got anxious and shouted: steady! Do not yank! It was our monitor, who said yanking breaks the rhythm and we must pull while counting together. We began to shout one-two, one-two, twenty pairs of feet kicking at once, the rope creaking, our palms feeling as if held over a small flame.

The cheering rose from the girls in the back row, louder and louder, until even students from the next class leaning on the windows joined in. That sound landed on the rope, and the rope felt lighter. The red strip stopped, then slowly crawled toward our side. Standing at the end of the rope, my body nearly sat on the ground, my shoe soles dragging two trails of dust. The final whistle blew, and we won. The whole class rushed over and hugged into one lump. My palms turned two long red streaks. They did not hurt. I felt like applauding them.

We discussed later why we won. One reason was the word steady from our monitor. If we had yanked along with our panic, the rope would jerk loose and tight and get dragged over more easily. Another was the cheering, and by the end even the PE teacher nodded at us. And one more: Mo Xiaobei was not on our team today. If he had slipped, we would have fallen apart. That is a story for later. For today, this is enough. A ten-minute preliminary, from assembly to scattering, felt longer than a forty-minute lesson, because every second of it was spent pulling with force.

On the way back the monitor said the anchor is the hero, because the last two inches moved only because I pressed my body down. I felt a little shy. I used to think the front of the rope gets all the glory. Today I learned that the person nobody sees is sometimes the most important one. This diary is almost finished, and my palms are still warm. For the real match of next week, the anchor is still me.

我在场边把嗓子喊劈了

11月3日 星期二 晴

今天课间举行拔河预赛，我们班对六班。可我没能上场。组队的时候按个子排，我差一点够到线，老师看了看我，说下一届再长个子吧。我站在场边，心里又酸又堵，像含了一颗没熟的李子。我想，拔河跟我没关系了，我就当个看客。

可是哨声一响，红布条往六班那边去的时候，我根本坐不住。我们班的绳子一寸一寸过去，场边的人比场上的人还急。有个女生急得直跺脚，有几个男生喊乱了，一会儿喊冲啊一会儿喊快拉，场上反而更乱。我忽然想到电视里划船的人都喊号子，就扯开嗓子喊：一二，拉！一二，拉！喊第一声的时候没人理，喊第三声的时候，场上我们班的脚居然合上了拍子，一起蹬地。我喊得更响了，后面的同学跟着我喊，二十个人的号子变成一条声音的绳子，比麻绳还粗。

红布条停住了。又动，往我们这边动。我看见绳尾的赵大河几乎坐在地上，鞋在灰里蹭出两道沟。最后哨响，我们赢了。场上的人跳起来，场边的人冲过去，我挤在人堆里，嗓子已经哑了，只能发出气声。赵大河抓住我的肩膀说：刚才号子是你带的吧？那声音就是我们的力气。我愣了一下，那颗没熟的李子忽然不酸了。

散场以后老师问是谁带的号子，班长指我。老师让我下周正式赛也站在场边，专门带号子，说这是任务。我领了这个任务，心里把那颗李子彻底咽下去了。原来不抽签、不上场，也有专门留给我的位置，就看我喊不喊得响。

晚上写日记，嗓子还疼，咽口水都疼。可我一点也不想难受。以前我以为集体就是上场的那几个人，今天知道了不是。喊加油的人、递水的人、记比分的人，都在绳子上。我的名字没写在队伍里，可我们班的红布条往回挪的时候，里面有我的一嗓子。下周正式赛，我还喊。嗓子劈了也喊。

I Shouted My Voice Hoarse from the Sideline

November 3, Tuesday, sunny.

Today at break our class held a tug-of-war preliminary against Class Six. But I did not make the team. The line was arranged by height, and I was a hair short of the mark. The teacher looked at me and said grow taller for the next round. I stood on the sideline, my heart sour and stuffed, as if holding an unripe plum. I thought tug-of-war had nothing to do with me anymore. I would just be a spectator.

But when the whistle blew and the red strip began sliding toward Class Six, I could not stay standing still. The rope of our class moved inch by inch against them, and the people on the sideline were more anxious than those on the field. A girl stamped her feet in distress, and several boys shouted in chaos, now charge, now pull fast, making the field even messier. I suddenly remembered that rowers on television shout work songs, so I opened my throat and shouted: one-two, pull! One-two, pull! Nobody listened at the first shout. By the third shout, the feet of our team fell into step and kicked the ground together. I shouted louder, the classmates behind me followed me, and the calls of twenty voices became one rope of sound, thicker than the hemp rope.

The red strip stopped. Then it moved, toward our side. I saw Zhao Dahe at the end of the rope nearly sitting on the ground, his shoes carving two grooves in the dust. The final whistle blew, and we won. The players jumped up, the sideline crowd rushed in, and I was squeezed in the pile with my voice already gone, able to make only breathy sounds. Zhao Dahe grabbed my shoulder and said: you led those calls just now, right? That sound was our strength. I froze for a second, and that unripe plum suddenly stopped tasting sour.

After we scattered, the teacher asked who led the work songs, and the monitor pointed at me. The teacher told me to stand on the sideline at the real match next week too, leading the calls on purpose, and said this is a mission. I accepted the mission, and in my heart I swallowed that plum all the way down. So without drawing lots or taking the field, there is still a place kept just for me, depending on whether I shout loud enough.

Writing this diary at night, my throat still hurts, even swallowing hurts. But I do not feel bad at all. I used to think a collective is only the few who play on the field. Today I know it is not. The people who cheer, who hand over water, who keep the score, are all on the rope. My name was not written in the lineup, yet when the red strip of our class crawled back, one of the shouts inside it was mine. For the real match of next week, I will still shout. Even with a split voice, I will still shout.