The time is 10 a.m. on no particular spring morning. Listen closely. The stall doors click locked and behind them the faint pop of a tin means a great tradition is standing strong. Outside, a pair of deer chomp on pachysandra and dandelion chutes. Honeybees begin the arduous pollination process. There is equilibrium, a reassuring peace in Northern New Jersey.

But that was back then. Fast forward four years and the same Grizzly Wintergreen tin that once bore fruit now reads, "November 30, 2015." That's Mom's birthday, the only gift she asked for: quit. The last straw in a hay stack of attempts to shake the bastards. Eight months later, I still think about those days and whether or not I am even ready to talk about it. Part of me thinks it's silly.

But the rest of me knows it's worth a shot.

And to be clear, I loathe the occasional unedited self help article that litters my Facebook feed. That said, I find solace in the site's emotional release. From an objective standpoint, I like the Odyssey. I also cannot forget that I am a foreigner here. Fitting in is a tablespoon of salt everyone has to swallow now and then. That said, here are the top five reasons I will never forget chewing tobacco until the day I die.

"When in Rome," I suppose.

1. The Terms

Dips, dippers, dipskis, lips, lippers, bombs, nukes, pooches, slugs, mud, dirt, etc. If the good folks at Merriam Webster's bottom lips bulged, then I am confident the thesaurus would reserve a page for the damp brown wads. Urban Dictionary will have to suffice until then.

2. The Smell

A ghastly fume, chewing tobacco doesn't just deliver delicious nicotine to the bloodstream. Chewing tobacco smells like something killed a long time ago then flavored in a variety of generic tastes. Now take 1.2 ounces of that and shove it in a can for two months. The result is a unique type of reward system. As long as lunch stays down and those nasty things stay packed, you've earned that buzz. Put your feet up. Relax.

3. The Store

Throughout my career (aside from lenient 7/11's), I have always trusted one local source for my packing needs. The year, however, is 2016 and the Internet can't keep a secret. A blatant exposure would be betrayal. I have chosen to withhold the name out of a respect for the institution that fueled my golden years.

4. The Girls

They're not really big fans of it. Or maybe you're a female who is a fan. Comment below.

5. The Boys

Skoal mints pouches raised me, Grizzly Wintergreen sustained me, Cope was there for a challenge and the gas station had Kodiak when all else failed. The constant, no matter what was nestled between gum and lip, was my boys. It was the sense of community with a hint of defiance. A memory more potent than a pouch, yet nostalgically sweet.

It was the dive into something uncertain. It was spitting into the same bottle. Packing was a universal language we spoke, except fluency was binary.

And while it is too late now to turn back, I will never fully turn on chewing tobacco. Above all else, chewing tobacco was a chapter in my life co-authored by the guys I'll never forget. Now closed, I can officially say those days are over, but not with dry eyes. And so I say onto you, may your lip be fat, may your spitter be full and may you always be for the boys, by the boys and eternally grateful for the gift of that foul metal cylinder.

-- Brian Monaghan