Every once in a while, especially when the weather hits a cool spot, I get a hunkering for a wad of chewing tobacco.
I get the itch to spit.
I would love to see a Chewing Tobacco Hall of Fame erected, too. Guys like John Kruk and Lenny Dykstra would be inducted, alongside the likes of Bill Mazeroski and Clint Eastwood (for his formidable spitting scene in "The Outlaw Josey Wales").
Well, you boys gonna pull those pistols or you just gonna stand there and whistle Dixie?
If I had any input in the matter, an honorable mention would go to Travis Cook, who, at the age of eight, had to be told by my father that chewing tobacco could not be utilized during little league baseball games. A native West Virginian, Travis begrudgingly obeyed my old man, and threw his Red Man foiled pack over the fence to his father's outstretched hand. Rules are rules, after all.
I have been putting it off for weeks, but my willpower to stay away from the long-cut stuff is waning. It is fading like the summer and I fear it will not be long before I am asking the woman at the convenience store to ring up a pack of Country Pride or Levi Garrett. Hopefully I can hold off until something strikes me wrong or gets my goat, so I can at least say that I am so mad that I could just spit. Because I could.