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From Hawaiian Milk Caps to Everyone’s Obsession

You might not know this about Pogs—they didn’t start in the 90s.

They’ve been around since the 1920s. On Maui, Hawaii.

Back then, kids played with cardboard caps from glass milk bottles. It was just a simple way to pass time after school.

It’s a lot like how we use old cereal boxes for crafts now. But way more competitive.

And here’s something else— that milk cap game probably came from Menko. Menko’s a Japanese card game. Immigrants brought it to the islands.

For decades, it was just a local thing. No big shows, no trademarks. Just kids being kids.

The name “Pog” showed up way later, thanks to a local juice. Haleakala Dairy made a drink with passionfruit, orange, and guava—P.O.G., for short. Turns out, those juice bottle caps were perfect for the game. But the real “comeback” moment? 1991, when a teacher in Oahu named Blossom Galbiso taught it to her fifth graders. She’d played it as a kid and thought, “Hey, this is a non-violent way to teach math.” Smart, right? Way better than worksheets about adding apples.

Then Hawaii went crazy for it. And that’s when a California guy named Alan Rypinski saw the hype. He bought the POG trademark from the dairy and started the World POG Federation. Suddenly, this little schoolyard game wasn’t just for Hawaii—it was a commercial powerhouse. By 1993? Billions of Pogs sold, in dozens of countries. Crazy how fast a milk cap can take over the world.

How You Actually Played (Spoiler: It Was Simple)

The best part about Pogs? You didn’t need fancy gear. All you needed was a stack of Pogs and a slammer. Here’s how it went:

Everyone tosses in the same number of their cardboard discs, stacks ’em up image-side up. Then you take turns—grip your slammer, aim, and slam it down on the stack as hard as you can. The goal? Flip as many Pogs as possible. Whatever lands face-down (or face-up, if your crew had weird house rules) is yours to keep. Restack the leftovers, next person goes. Repeat until every last Pog is gone.

But let’s break down the “gear”—because that’s where the magic was:

Pogs themselves: These were your currency. Thin cardboard, each with a unique design—cartoon characters, superheroes, even brand logos (I had a SpongeBob one I thought was elite). They were meant to be won and lost, traded and bragged about.

Slammers: Your weapon, basically. Heavier, thicker—usually plastic, metal, or rubber. Some had holograms, some looked like saw blades, some were filled with glitter. Everyone had a favorite they swore was lucky. Mine? A metal one with a dragon on it. I thought it was unbeatable… until my friend used a brass slammer that flattened the whole stack. Some kids called those heavy metal ones “cheating.” Fair.

Tubes: Clear plastic tubes—this was how you showed off. If your tube was packed tight with colorful Pogs, everyone knew you were a serious player. No need to brag; your tube did the talking. I once spent a whole week trading to fill mine up—felt like I’d won the lottery.

But here’s what made Pogs feel like life or death: two words—“for keeps.” Before you started, you had to agree. Was this just for fun, where everyone gets their Pogs back? Or was it for keeps?

If it was for keeps? Everything changed. Suddenly, it wasn’t a game anymore. It was a high-stakes duel. You put your favorite Pog in that stack? Your rarest one? One bad slam, and it was gone. I still remember losing a holographic Jurassic Park Pog—cried a little, not gonna lie. That rule turned a casual recess thing into something that made your heart race. Wins felt like actual victories, losses felt like tiny tragedies.

Collectors, Gamblers, and a Backlash

Pogs worked because they hit two kid sweet spots: the urge to collect, and the thrill of competing. The World POG Federation and other companies cranked out every design you could imagine. Jurassic Park Pogs? Check. Simpsons ones? Yep. McDonald’s even put ’em in Happy Meals—I’d beg my mom to let me get one just for the Pog, not the nuggets. There were holographic Pogs, glow-in-the-dark ones, even fuzzy ones (those were weird, but I wanted one).

It turned into a collecting mania. You’d spend hours after school sorting your stack, trading with friends at lunch, hunting for that one disc to finish a set. Slammers were even bigger status symbols—brass ones, 3D hologram ones, skulls or eight-balls? If you had one of those, you were the cool kid on the playground.

But not everyone loved it. Parents and teachers started worrying—“for keeps” felt like gambling to them. One elementary school principal told the Los Angeles Times in 1994, “I guess you could liken it to going to Las Vegas and losing your money on the table… children don’t like losing their chips.” And he was right. Little kids don’t always get that “for keeps” means permanently gone. Fights broke out over lost Pogs. Younger kids would cry when their favorite cap was taken. Classrooms got distracted—who’s paying attention to math when you’re replaying that bad slam in your head?

So schools started banning them. All over the U.S., Canada, Europe—no Pogs on school grounds. But here’s the thing about bans: they make stuff cooler. Suddenly, Pogs went underground. Hushed trades in the corner of the playground, secret after-school meetups at someone’s house. It felt like a tiny rebellion—just a few cardboard discs in your pocket, but it felt big.

When the Hype Died (Fast)

Just like it arrived, the Pog craze vanished. By the late 90s, you didn’t hear that slammer thwack anymore. Why?

First, the market was oversaturated. Too many designs, too many Pogs—they lost their “special” factor. What was once a rare find was now in every toy store clearance bin. The school bans didn’t help either—no playground, no game. But mostly? Kids moved on. The 90s were full of fads. Next came Tamagotchis (remember those? You had to feed ’em every five minutes, or they’d “die”—stressful) and Pokémon cards. Suddenly, Pogs felt old.

The World POG Federation? They thought the craze would last forever. By late 1995, they were on the verge of bankruptcy. That game that burned so bright? It just… burned out.

Today? It’s All Nostalgia

Now, Pogs are just 90s nostalgia in a plastic tube. They’re relics from a time before smartphones—when a pocket full of cardboard circles and a heavy slammer was the most important thing in the world.

For me, it’s not just about the game. It’s the sun on the blacktop, the weight of that dragon slammer in my hand, the gut-wrenching tension of watching my stack scatter—hoping my favorite Pogs didn’t flip. It was my first taste of risk: winning big, losing something that felt like it truly mattered.

Hey, you—if you were there too? What was your coolest or rarest slammer? Did you have a Pog you’d never let go of (even for keeps)? Drop the details in the comments—I’d love to hear it.

For Keeps: Inside the Schoolyard Phenomenon of Pogs

From Hawaiian Milk Caps to Everyone’s Obsession

How You Actually Played (Spoiler: It Was Simple)

Collectors, Gamblers, and a Backlash

When the Hype Died (Fast)

Today? It’s All Nostalgia