I didn't get much sleep Tuesday night. Admittedly, the above isn't a very original complaint. It's staple of breakfast table discourse, usually qualified by one of the following: "I started a fifteen-pager at midnight," "The Bow had dollar pints," or--in the spirit of my freshman year roommate--"I had to be awake to check my e-mail at four-thirty."

But I'll venture that the explanation for the baggy eyes and cup of black dining hall coffee I sported Wednesday morning, or more properly, afternoon, is unique.

How about this one: I slept in the back row of the Greyhound 12:30 a.m. express from New York City?

Seamy as it sounds, my purposes in the Naked City were legitimate. I was making a pilgrimage to the baseball shrine at 161st street and River Avenue, to catch my first Yankee playoff game since the 1996 World Series.

A caveat before I proceed: this being October, I'm going to admit to the malaise that curiously befalls most Americans around this time of year, the playoff fever that makes us abdicate good judgment and sound priorities when baseball is t stake.

I, for example, traded Fox Sports and a good night's sleep for section 57 of the left-field bleachers and a living-color view of the Bombers' crisp, thorough domination of the Texas Rangers--and eight hours on a "luxury coach" between Boston and the Big Apple.

I'll leave the post-game analysis to my colleagues on the sports page, but suffice it to say that playoff baseball--and the death-grip it holds on the imagination of otherwise reasonable people--is a topic of concern even outside the sports community.

This month's issue of Cosmopolitan--which I read solely for the articles--ran a feature entitled "How to Survive a Sports Fan," a women's primer which offered "play-by-play strategies for dealing with your sports-addicted man, so you get to score."

Cosmo's more provocative suggestions, which included vacuuming naked in front of the television in an attempt to break the sports fan's concentration, speak to the gravity of playoff fever's potential consequences.

But let's set aside the relationship angle. Given the relative impossibility of finding a would-be Cameron Diaz--a girl who wants to hook up, and then watch Sportscenter--the sports addict will likely have to content himself with a celibate postseason.

I'm more interested in the academic and cultural repercussions of being a playoff nut at Harvard.

From two years' agonizing experience with Yankees and Knicks postseasons in Cambridge, let me humbly set forth the following bits of advice:

Most crucially, find a place to watch. Failing the bleachers, opt for the common rooms of baseball fans who share your addiction. This is of particular importance when you're apt to put a foot through the wall after a muffed double-play ball, or fling furniture after, say, Mark Wohlers hangs a slider.

For cable coverage, try the basement of Pizzeria Uno's. Unlike the Grille's, its reserved decor and contemplative atmosphere will allow you to focus on what's most significant.

Twenty years from now, do you want to remember an event of the magnitude of a Kirk Gibson home run, or an encounter with "this girl from my section who is pretty hot and who I think sweats me?"