Not A Care In the World

“Here comes the slammer,” yells my crazy neighborhood friend Ryan, as he throws his “slammer” enthusiastically at my POGs. “Yes! I win three new ones,” he says with a grin that runs ear to ear.

POGs is a game that was very popular in my youth. It was our way of trading POGs in fair way based totally on luck and chance. POGs themselves were small and oval pieces of cardboard with pictures of our favorite baseball, football, and basketball players on one side and nothing on the other. They were a little bit larger than the size of a quarter. A slammer was a four ounce piece of metal that we used when we played POGs. Each player had one slammer and owned their own set of POGs. The slammer and the POGs were the same size, though the slammer was quite heavier than the almost weightless POGs.

Ryan raises his newly won POGs above his head and examines them as if they were apart of an undiscovered treasure. I began to stare at the ground as my chin drops to my chest in utter disappointment.

Once it was decided who went first, generally, through a quick game of Rock Paper Scissors, the players chose six of their POGs and pooled them with the other player’s six; each POG put up by a player was at risk of being lost. The POGs then were stacked upside down, one on top of the other, on a flat surface. A player would then proceed to throw his or her slammer at the stack. The POGs that landed with their face-side up would be awarded to the thrower. After every collection of winnings, the players would switch turns. They would then continue re-stacking until all the POGs had been won.

We continue taking our turns, back in forth until I ultimately surrender. I had just lost my three favorite POGs. As I walk down the street toward my home, I’m already contemplating how I can lobby my parents to finance a new set.