This year's U.S. Open is at Bethpage Black, the first public muni to serve as host of the event. True, Pebble Beach is technically a public course, but that's only in the same way that "The Legend of Bagger Vance" was technically entertainment.

	A man for the "People's Open," Tiger Woods drives his buddies to Bethpage in his Buick.

A midweek round at Bethpage Black is open to anyone with $31, a set of clubs and a lot of time on their hands. The course is so popular that the easiest way to get a tee time would have been to qualify for the Open. To play otherwise, you either must get through the overloaded phone lines exactly one week in advance -- the instant the course accepts reservations -- or spend the night in the parking lot waiting in line and sleeping in your car with a Big Bertha jabbing you in the ribs.

So it's not quite right to call this the People's Open, as the USGA does. As long as golfers arrive at the course in stretch limos or get dropped off by their Swedish nanny, it's hardly the people's open.

Of course, it would be different if the golfers had to wait overnight for a tee time, the same as everyone else ...

It is 4 in the morning. Cars fill the parking lot outside Bethpage Black, each loaded with golfers from the PGA Tour, all waiting in line for a tee time. Most cars are silent, except for the sound of snoring. But the occupants of one vehicle are not sleeping. As we peer into a 1998 Buick Century, we instead hear a voice bellowing an all-too familiar song.

"Fifty-seven bottles of beer on the wall, 57 bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 56 bottles of beer on the walllll ..."

Tiger Woods turns around in the driver's seat and glares at John Daly in the backseat.

"God, can you give it a rest. John? We're trying to sleep!"

"Well, excuuuuseee me, Mr. Greatest Golfer in the World, Mr. I Went to Stanford, Mr. Dates A Swedish Bombshell. Did I interrupt your precious visualization of your approach shot on 13?"

"No, John. Dad and I prepared for that particular shot four years ago at the Memorial, if you must know. I'm just trying to get a little sleep before we tee off, all right?"

Daly responds with a deep, rumbling belch that shakes the car and fills the car with the unmistakable smell of MGD, Marlboro's and 2-day-old White Castle hamburgers. Phil Mickelson stares at him in disgust from the passenger's seat, then turns to Tiger.

	Phil Mickelson gets a little cold without a Green Jacket of his own.

"That boy is a p-i-g, pig. Anyway -- you never answered my question, Tiger."

Woods sighs and mutters under his breath.

"Yes, Phil. It's 'really cool' when Yoda whips out the light saber and kicks Christopher Lee's butt. I'm just saying that Lucas' reliance on computer graphics and special effects has come at the expense of plot and character development."

"I'm hungry," cries another voice.

"For crying out loud, Monty! You just polished off an entire Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust pizza an hour ago."

"I can't help it, Tiger. I'm hungry. Are you sure there aren't any more Cheetos left?"

"Daly had them last. Ask him."

Colin Montgomerie turns to Daly.

"John, do you have any more Cheetos?"

Daly belches again and resumes singing.

"If one of those bottles should happen to fall, 49 bottles of beer on the walllll ..."

Mickelson shakes his head, then shivers.

"It's getting cold in here. Could you turn the heater on, Tiger?"

"No, Phil, but I've got three green jackets in the trunk. Want to borrow one?"

Tiger grins. Mickelson glowers.

"Hey, Phil! Look over there at that mini-van! I haven't seen anything shake like that since you entered the Sunday of a major."

Mickelson leans over and peers through the window.

"Who is that, anyway? I can't tell with the windows all fogged up."

Montgomerie looks toward the van.

"Must be Sergio. That lad shags more than anyone on the tour."

	John Daly's quirks and habits turn waiting for the U.S. Open into an episode of MTV's "Road Rules."

Daly suddenly perks up.

"That reminds me, Tiger. Does Parnevik have any more nannies?"

Before Tiger can respond, his cell phone rings.

"Yeah? (Whispering) Hellooooo, sweetie.... Yeah, I was just thinking about you, too.... Yes, I wish you were here with me right now, too.... No, I can't sleep, either.... I can't wait to see you, too. (Glances back at Daly who is laughing at him.) Listen, I can't really talk right now.... No, I'm not trying to get rid of you.... No, sweetie, I don't think my golf friends are more important than you are. It's just that I have a very big tournament that begins tomorrow, and it's getting late and I have to get some sleep. (Daly leans over the seat to eavesdrop; Tiger gives him the finger.) Look sweetie, you'll be here tomorrow night, and we'll get some dinner, and then Sunday after I win, we'll go into the city to celebrate like I promised. But I've really got to go now.... You say it first.... No, you say it first.... No, you first.... No, sweetie, I'm not saying it until you say it --"

Daly suddenly grabs the cell phone and shouts into it:

"I LOVE YOU, ELIN!!!!!"

Tiger lunges toward the back seat.

"I swear to God, Daly, I'm going rip your @%^#%ing head off!!!!"

Mickelson and Montgomerie separate the two. Mickelson points his finger at Daly.

"I'm warning you, John."

"Oooooooo, I'm so scared, Phil. Let me ask you something. Say you and Tiger were tied for the lead entering Sunday. When would you start peeing your pants -- the back nine, the front nine or in your bed the night before?"

Mickelson lunges toward him, but Woods holds him back.

	How about those Bears, Monty?

"Let it go, Phil. Let it go."

"Yeah, Phil. Let it go. Just like a lead at a major."

Daly laughs. Tiger smiles. Mickelson turns and faces the windshield, staring straight ahead with his arms folded and his face boiling in anger.

A sweet odor suddenly fills the car.

"Ohhhhh, Monty ... "

"Sorry, mates."

The car gets silent and the players finally begin to slowly nod off, one by one, even Daly, who finally tries to lie down as best he can to sleep.

"I've got to say, Monty. You Brits know how to travel. This pillow of yours is damn comfy."

"That's NOT my pillow!!!"

As Montgomerie bolts from the Buick, the sun creeps over the horizon and the rest of the golfers emerge from their cars and slowly trudge to the clubhouse for the start of the tournament. Woods wipes the sleep from his eyes as he opens the trunk.

"Why couldn't we have gotten through on the phone line?"

Jim Caple is a senior writer for ESPN.com. He can be reached at cuffscaple@hotmail.com.