The global phenomenon of the Netflix series Squid Game did something far more profound than just introducing the world to the tension of high-stakes survival. For those of us who grew up on the playgrounds of South Korea, it acted as a powerful psychological time machine. It reached deep into the recesses of our collective consciousness and pulled forward memories that had been gathering dust for decades. As I watched the screen, I wasn't just a casual viewer; I was a child again, transported back to a world where the sun felt warmer, the days felt longer, and the entire universe revolved around five small stones or a length of black elastic.
Among all the childhood pastimes featured in the show, the ones that resonate most deeply with my soul are Gonggi (the game of stones) and the Rubber Band Game (Gomujul-nori). These weren't just games; they were the social fabric of our youth, the measure of our dexterity, and the foundation of our friendships.
If you were to ask any Korean person of my generation to guess my gender based solely on my favorite childhood game, they would likely guess correctly immediately. Gonggi was primarily the domain of girls, though its competitive nature drew in everyone eventually. In Squid Game, the portrayal of Gonggi was simplified for the sake of the narrative. To survive the round, a player only had to succeed in the final stage, the "Kkeokgi" (the catch), once. One success, and their life was spared.
However, for those of us who carried a set of five colorful plastic gonggi beads in our pencil cases like precious jewels, the game was far more grueling, complex, and rewarding. We didn’t play to just "pass"; we played for points, and we played for the sheer glory of an unbroken streak. In a typical match, reaching 20 points was the baseline, but experienced players like myself—those who spent every recess honing their skills—would often aim for 50 or even 70 points without ever losing a turn.
The scoring system of Gonggi is a masterclass in fine motor skills and psychological warfare. The game progresses through five distinct levels. In the first level, you toss one stone up and pick up the others one by one. In the second, you pick them up in pairs. In the third, a three-and-one split. In the fourth, you keep all stones in your hand while tossing one. But the true heart of the game—and the source of the most intense playground drama—is the fifth stage: Kkeokgi.
Anyone who has reached this stage knows exactly how much calm and composure it requires. You toss all five stones into the air, and in one fluid motion, you must flip your hand over and land as many as possible on the back of your hand. This is where the tension peaks. If you are even slightly agitated, if your heart is racing from the excitement of a high score, or if you are rushing to beat the school bell, the stones will inevitably scatter. We all know that specific feeling of "hustle-panic" where you flip your hand too fast and the stones fly in five different directions.
The math of Kkeokgi is precise. If you land all five on the back of your hand and catch them all in the mid-air snatch, you earn 5 points. But if one slips and falls to the ground during the flip, you only get 4 points. If two fall, you get 3. If every single stone slides off that small surface of your hand, you are "out," and you must endure the agonizing wait for your opponent to finish their turn. Once the stones are securely balanced on the back of your hand, the final toss and catch is actually the easy part. The true challenge is the transition—the split-second where gravity and nerves conspire against you. If you drop even a single stone during that final mid-air snatch, you are out. It is a game that demands absolute focus and a steady hand until the very last millisecond.
We were also bound by the strict rule of "Touching." If you were picking up a stone and your finger so much as grazed another stone on the floor, you were out.
If Gonggi was a game of silent, internal focus, the Rubber Band Play was a masterpiece of athletic coordination and collective rhythm. Looking back now, as someone who has spent twenty years navigating the high-pressure world of IT, I realize that the Rubber Band Play was essentially a comprehensive workout and an exercise performance disguised as play.
During lunch breaks, the schoolyard would be transformed. You would see rows of girls jumping over long, black elastic bands stretched between two "anchors" (usually two other girls or a sturdy pole). It required jumping with precision, singing in perfect time with the beat, and performing maneuvers that would make a gymnast proud.
One way of the rubber band play followed a vertical hierarchy. We started with the band at the ankles—the easy level. As we successfully completed the choreographed steps, the band moved up to the knees, then the waist, the armpits, the shoulders, and eventually high above the head. To clear the highest levels, you had to be creative and fearless. You would perform handstands to hook the string with your foot, or high-kicks that seemed to defy the laws of physics.
Another favorite variation of the rubber band play was a rhythmic dance of agility and teamwork. It involved singing a song to a steady beat while moving your feet back and forth with surgical precision between the parallel bands. These routines were often complex, requiring us to perform specific actions like stepping firmly on the rubber band with one foot, spinning around in a swift motion, and moving in a synchronized counter-clockwise direction.
As we moved, we would gradually form a circle, our movements perfectly aligned with our teammates. It was a true test of synchronization; if one person missed a step or lost the rhythm, the entire circle would break. Each routine was set to a specific song, and the music was inseparable from the movement. Even now, if I hear those melodies, my feet instinctively want to find the rhythm again. The one that still echoes in my mind most clearly is the "Toy Train" (Jangnangan Gicha) song. I can still hear the chorus of young voices rising over the playground:
The toy train goes chug-chug away, (장난감 기차가 칙칙 떠나간다)
Carrying cookies and sugar on its tray, (과자와 설탕을 실고서)
To our little baby in mommy’s room, (엄마방에 있는 우리 아기 한테)
It goes to deliver them very soon. (갖다주러 갑니다.)
The melody was simple, but the footwork required to match the lyrics was incredibly complex. If your foot got tangled or you missed a beat, you were out. It was a beautiful blend of music, sport, and social bonding. We practiced these steps until they were fluid, until our bodies moved by instinct.
It is strange how these memories, which I had almost entirely forgotten, came flooding back with such clarity. For years, my life has been defined by servers, networks, and the fast-paced evolution of technology. But Squid Game acted as a collective "recall" for an entire nation. It reignited a flame of nostalgia that reminded us of who we were before the world became so digital, so fast, and so isolated.
When I look at the children of today, I feel a profound sense of sympathy. I see them tucked away in their rooms, their faces illuminated by the blue light of tablets and smartphones. They have incredible virtual worlds at their fingertips—games with stunning graphics and infinite complexity—but they are missing the tactile, sensory joy of the physical world.
They will never know the specific, cool weight of five stones in their palm. They will never feel the sting of a rubber band against their ankle or the wind in their hair as they leap over a string held high above their head. They miss the "presence" of being in the same physical space as their friends, where the only thing that mattered was the rhythm of the song singing together and the steadiness of their hands.
In those analog games, we learned how to win with grace and how to lose with dignity. We learned how to focus our minds and how to push our bodies. Most importantly, we learned the value of shared experiences. Gonggi and the Rubber Band Game were the threads that wove us together.
As I sit here today, I find myself wanting to go out and find five smooth stones. I want to see if my hands still remember the "Kkeokgi" catch. I want to see if I can still find that center of calm in the middle of a busy life. Squid Game reminded us of the stakes, but my memories remind me of the joy. We may live in a world of high-tech and high-speed, but the lessons of the playground—of patience, rhythm, and the simple pleasure of a game well-played—are the things that truly endure.