Every spring in upstate N.Y. the Syracuse Orangemen appear on almost every TV in almost every bar, gymnasium and department store for the March Madness college basketball tourney. And every spring, the hopes of upstaters follow a Buffalo Bills-like arc, a rise-then-fall, while they the Orangemen win and then, inevitably, lose.

But not me, even though my Dad was a Buffalo News cameraman before he went back to school at Syracuse, where he and my Mom, a north-county native, lived before I came along. Dad’s new MFA got him a job an hour south in Ithaca N.Y. (where the Orangemen were fiercely loved in the adopted way Rochesterians love the Bills) and where I went to college.

For me, every upstate Spring — with its deep mud, heavy skies and losing Orangemen — brings a deep nostalgia for the Vineyard. Why? Because more years ago than I’ll say, one cold wet morning, after a cheap haircut and a call from an editor and publisher named Richard Reston, I got on the road with a pack of Pecan Sandies and a print-out from MapQuest.com, and headed to the Vineyard.

I drove through Cornell’s Collegetown, then Slaterville Springs, then very scary Lisle N,Y., to Whitney Point and onto potholed Route 88, towards Albany — passing Baseball Hall of Fame signs, then over the Hudson, two un-scenic hours through central Mass., onto 495, following signs for the Cape and Islands.

Eventually sand appeared on the road.

It was dark when I finally pulled in to Woods Hole, parked at the public radio station, and walked down the hill towards a blazing white boat. It was darker still when I stepped off the gangway onto the Vineyard for the first time. In a starry parking lot, my old friend Kelly was there, in the car she’d had in college when she was dating my buddy Bryan, who Mr. Reston had hired the year before as a cub reporter for the Gazette. That night he had a select board meeting to cover.

We drove to Edgartown, then down a sandy road, paved somewhat with stones. In their tiny off-season rental, Bryan was watching March Madness on a little TV. He’d played in high school, and played pick-up ball around the Island. He was still studiously watching when I passed out that night in the guest room.

In the morning I combed my hair, drove Bryan’s truck into town, parked in front of 34 Summer street, the address of Vineyard Gazette, and walked through the open door. Up the low stairs, at the end of the open newsroom, behind a glass door marked EDITOR, Mr. Reston sat in his office. When he saw me standing there, he stepped out and extended his hand.

“Dick,” he said.

We moved into the conference room, to the end of a long polished table, presided over by a massive print of two older folks in the downstairs pressroom. Soon we were joined by Larry, the Gazette’s managing editor, whose boots, jeans and sweatshirt were covered in sawdust.

Bryan was leaving and the Gazette needed a cub reporter, Dick explained. He’d read my stringer’s clips from the local Upstate Gannett, and a piece on campus cyber security for a zine called Buzzsaw Haircut.

“That was an interesting story,” he said.

Larry nodded.

That night, Bryan and Kelly took me to dinner, and then we went home and watched Syracuse lose in the semi-finals to Michigan State, who went all the way that year. I went to bed and Bryan called his Dad, a ‘Cuse fan and old upstate player himself.

The next morning he drove me to the boat to Woods Hole. An hour later, walking up the hill towards where I’d parked, I noticed two things: the town was alive with daffodils and my car was gone.

But that’s another story.

What happened a month later, when Dick Reston called to ask if I wanted the job, and if I could start before graduation, is also another story, along with the next year — a year full of select board meetings and Cape and Island sports, of Menemsha sunsets and airport pancakes, of heart-breaking betrayal, visits good and not, and my first (and last) NPR story.

I’m still working on it . . . . We’ll get there. For now, Game On.

A former Gazette reporter, Cole Louison is an upstate correspondent for the New York Times. His next book, The Brooklyn Banks, is forthcoming.