It’s possible that I am overthinking this, but as this is being written, the future of civilization could be up for grabs at the Torrey Pines Golf Club in San Diego.

Will it belong to the soul-less corporate monoliths? Or will the common guy, the average shlub (assuming it’s possible for an average shlub to play on the professional golf tour), still have a chance? Will Eldrick “Tiger” Woods, 32, the bionic cablinasian golf machine, win this year’s U.S. Open and yet another major championship? Or will Rocco Mediate, a 45-year old journeyman and the 158th-best player in the world, stand off the machine and win one for the rest of us shlubs?

I have moved my computer so I can see the screen and still keep my good eye on the television set we had installed to keep our department abreast of breaking news such as this. To paraphrase H.L. Mencken, I usually am not guilty of caring about golf, but Rocco v. Tiger has changed that. Larger Issues, i.e., the future of average Joes in the era of corporate super-hype, are at stake.

Here’s Tiger, 32, who has won 64 tournaments and 13 majors. Here’s Rocco, who’s won five tournaments, but none lately. The only other time he was in position to win a major tournament, he blew up with a septuple bogey 10 on the 12th hole at the 2006 Masters.

Here’s Tiger, who earned $128 million last year, most of it off the golf course. And here’s Rocco, who’s won $317,000 so far this year on the PGA tour, which is like barely breaking even, and who dreams of playing professional poker.

Here’s Eldrick, with the coolest nickname ever. And here’s Rocco, whose proud Italian surname has been Anglicized to make him sound like a divorce firm.

Here’s Tiger, who hits the ball 200 yards and when it stops inches from the hole, he scowls because it didn’t go in. And here’s Rocco, who’s just happy to be here.

And here they are, through 14 holes, dead even in a playoff round for the U.S. Open. And glory be, on 15 Rocco sinks a long curling putt for a birdie and takes the lead. Could it be? Could it possibly be?

Of course not. You know better than this. But the heart can’t help but hope. The heart roots for Rocky Balboa over Apollo Creed and Hickory High over South Bend Central. But the head knows, as Damon Runyon once wrote, that “The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that is the way to bet.”

Rocco holds his one-stroke lead through 16 and 17, walking up 18 to applause like he’s never heard before, grinning although he’s hit his drive into a bunker and Tiger, of course, has crushed his drive 360 yards straight down the middle.

Tiger’s on the green and sinking a birdie putt on 18 to catch poor Rocco on the last hole for the the second day in a row. And the coach starts turning back into a pumpkin.

Rocco hits his drive in a bunker on the first sudden-death playoff hole, and Tiger hits his straight as a rope, is on the green in two. He misses a long putt for birdie and settles for par. Rocco’s shot at glory has worn off; he can’t sink his 18-foot putt for par.

And of course, Tiger wins. It took him 91 holes, but Tiger wins. Tiger is the champion.

But Rocco is the hero.