The 2008 U.S. Open at Torrey Pines was choc-a-bloc full of drama and character and story lines. But I am left with none of the lingering buzz that appears to affect some of the younger, appletini-drinking writers around here.

Instead, I’ve got a U.S. Open hangover.

And it’s not just that my liver looks like SpongeBob SquarePants, thanks to the open bar and attentive bartenders at the Lexus hospitality tent and Power of h Gala at the Hard Rock Hotel.

And it’s not just because I wept like John Daly over a dry keg when I had to check out of the ultimate new luxury SoCal golf and spa resort, the Grand del Mar. (Seriously, the service there is equaled only by that at The American Club in Kohler, Wis., in my experience.)

Rather, this throbbing headache, upset stomach, and vague, creeping feeling of shame and regret stem from my complete inability to decide who I wanted to win.

For history, posterity, and orthopedic surgeons everywhere, I wanted Tiger to win.

For 40-something underdogs with bad backs and quirky swings who are named after hairdressers, Rocco was the man.

I found myself shouting and jumping up and down for EVERY good or bad shot, EVERY made or missed putt, no matter who hit it.

It was euphoric, disorienting, riveting, and mildly paranoia-inducing all at once. (Like that time I ate an odd chocolate-mushroom confection at a Phish concert.)

Most of all, though, I was hoping that Tiger would make that final putt on the 91st hole to win, rather than Rocco missing his putt to lose.

That didn’t happen, but if I had been scripting the wild ride that was the 108th U.S. Open, it would have.

And in my script, Kate Walsh would have offered me her phone number.

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