Most years, few people would care if it were raining on a late September evening in Detroit.

People in Detroit would be a little bummed, of course, because that early evening stroll on Hart Plaza would be just a bit soggy.

But people in the rest of the country--and especially those baseball fans in American League East cities--wouldn't take much notice at all. You see, by this last week of any ordinary baseball season, the Tigers would be out of the pennant race, doomed to yet another fifth place finish in the AL East.

But it's different this year.

I wear my 100 per cent wool Tiger cap--purchased fondly at Tiger Stadium for seven dollars--as I write this, for I am a Detroit Tiger fan.

I am not really a baseball fan, although I love the game dearly. I do not know who won the NL Golden Glove for center field in 1972. I'd be lousy at Strat.

I can, however, name all nine pitchers for the World Champion 1968 Detroit Tigers. And Ray Oyler played short, except for in the World Series, when Mickey Stanley filled in.

I am a partisan, vocal, biased Tiger fan, and this year--I say--is different.

The Tigers are in first place in the AL East. They will stay there, protecting that tenuous half game lead over Milwaukee, and then Kirk Gibson, Jack Morris and Co. will dump New York in that first, ridiculous round of playoffs. Believe it, sports.

*****

It is, however raining in Detroit. And people care.

A Tiger fan is isolated in Boston, the land of Peter Gammons and Bruce Schoenfeld. Normally forced to wait for the morning paper to check the box score, the poor guy could die ignorant in his bed, not knowing that Jack Morris had just shut out the Orioles. Or not knowing about the rain in Detroit.

But I know about the win, and about the rain.

Because tucked into a corner of my room, lying sedately on the green and black rug, is a dirty-white, beat-up, 1965 vintage, Panasonic clock radio. It is a magic link with the world.

With careful, patient tuning, it reaches out beyond Rte. 128, beyond Albany, beyond Niagara Falls, beyond Cleveland, beyond Toledo, all the way to the self-proclaimed "Paris of the Southeastern corner of lower Michigan," to the clear channel voice of the Great Lakes, radio 760, WJR, Detroit.

There, amidst static and fading frequencies, you can hear Ernie Harwell and Paul Carey--the best broadcasters in the world, bar none--singing out the play by play as Morris racks up yet another win.

Or describing the raindrops, as they did tonight (The game, as of 10:10 p.m., is officially rained out, and will be played tomorrow afternoon.)

More often than not, when WJR fades, the old Panasonic picks up the Chicago games, or Milwaukee, or even Atlanta. Not to mention the hated Red Sox.

But when I can, I listen to Ernie and Paul, describing in sweet tones that sweetest of all double play combos, Alan Trammell and "Sweet Lou" Whitaker. Or Kirk Gibson, cracking a massive home run to straight-away center.

And I know, that this year is different.

Forget the strike. Forget the split season. For a hungry city like Detroit, this team is for real. Forget about next year. The time is now.