SOMEWHERE IN RURAL CENTRAL INDIANA — A rush of nostalgia crept over while driving through the mowed flat cornfields of Indiana 26 while changing speeds between 20-50 miles per hour.

I’ve dreamt of these moments. Rolling down the windows to the sweet scents of cinnamon and smoked wood from chimneys across a landscape previously only seen on television.

Of course, I’m referring to the movie “Hoosiers” — the film that captured my imagination of Indiana sports. Dreaming of one day covering sports with packed-tight arenas in big and small towns alike.

Driving from Lafayette to Marion; Marion to Caston; and then the dream trip of Lafayette to Simon Skjodt Assembly Hall to cover the women’s basketball rivalry of Purdue vs. Indiana. A dream fulfilled having grown up reading the L.A. Times inch by inch, word by word and the bitterness of Keady vs. Knight reaching my porch doorstep in the Los Angeles suburb of Woodland Hills.

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And it was in these moments, listening to the masterful Hoosiers soundtrack of Jerry Goldsmith across the quiet hamlets of crossing counties, that my identity of Indiana was found.

Each gym you walk into feels like you’re walking into a theater crafted by artisans and architects. Buildings that have withstood generations and whose industry is bound in the walls of trophies and memorabilia. Banners and pennants, hanging from the walls.

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Indiana doesn’t just scribe its history. It revels in it.

As an outsider looking in, Boilerism/Hoosierism still exists. You see it in the volunteer labor by community members who sweep the floors repeatedly to maintain the integrity of the hardwood.

Fans whose children haven’t competed in over 20 years are still assisting with the concession stands and taking tickets for the next game.

Band members practice for hours on end to master the national anthem and make their crowds dance. Aged wood and walls painted and repainted over generations, bearing witness to heroes.

As a kid from the San Fernando Valley, I’m a long way from the glamor of Crypto.com Arena, Pauley Pavilion and the Galen Center.

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Now what I have are the raging diehards and aging heroes of old teaching the next generation what it truly means to be an Indiana basketball player.

Wouldn’t have it any other way. Indiana is home.