It’s been a very long time since I last set foot on the soil of my birthplace, that grungy Motor City which now heaves under the weight of more frequent Big 3 layoffs. And even though I now identify myself with other places, like the hills of middle Tennessee, the Natural State and Big D, there’s the part of my childhood when I felt nothing more true about myself than of my being a Michigander.

Once we moved to Tennessee, I avoided terms like ‘ya’ll’ and “pocketbook.” Frequently I argued with playmates about the correct term for carbonated beverages (it’s still “pop”), and abhorred all forms of country music in an attempt to hold onto an identity. I annoyed my friends with tales of “my old school” and how things were so much better in Michigan. “There’s snow! And triangle frozen juice thingees! And THREE recesses! And professional SPORTS!”

It wasn’t until Dad bought a business that I realized my hope, my wish, my dream to be near Grandma was dead. I got used to calling myself a Southerner and a Tennessean. My accent got a little worse. But I still proudly wore my Tigers shirts, even nearing a 20 year losing record. I had friends in college who poked fun at the “Roar of 84″ and “Beast of the East” t-shirts, but I didn’t care.

Then there was the last game at Tiger Stadium, the day after my 19th birthday. I remember feeling sad seeing the images of a fan poster hung on the right-center overhang that read “Today there is mourning in baseball. So long, old friend.” And I thought maybe, just maybe, a new stadium would mean a new team with renewed vigor. That hope died away when, in 2003, they lost an American League record 119 games, 100 of which happened before September. By that time, my wardrobe of Tigers shirts were no longer (publicly) in rotation.

Yet somehow, while I was working and sleeping and trying to avoid football, the Tigers were planning their day. I heard whispers of their record but didn’t want to get my hopes up. Then I heard they were division champs won the AL wild card. “Good for them,” I thought, expecting it to end at any moment. After all, they were up against the Yankees! At that point I think the team carried my hope for me. They were different — no longer the defeatest team of the majority of my youth. They kicked the Yankees’ asses and proceeded to spray fans with bottle after bottle of champagne — before the playoffs were even over!

Now I’m watching Game 1, sick with nausea and wearing a Detroit shirt. And despite being over a thousand miles away, the Michigander in me is right there with them.