They say every great golf movement starts with one unforgettable shot. For Victor Rodriguez, a San Juan Capistrano local with the swagger of a rockstar and the patience of a saint, that shot came on a muggy afternoon at San Juan Hills Golf Club. Victor wasn’t your average golfer. He didn’t just play golf — he wrestled with it, like it was a rival he was determined to beat. His friends called him a golfing legend, not because he had textbook-perfect form, but because of the way he could Houdini his way out of impossible lies. One day, Victor found himself buried alive in the bunker on the par-3 seventh. The ball was sitting so deep it might as well have needed its own forwarding address. His buddies shook their heads, whispering, “That’s it, he’s cooked.”But Victor? He didn’t panic. He dug in, took one mighty swing, and launched that ball out like the finale at Disneyland’s Fourth of July fireworks. It didn’t just land on the green — it rolled in for birdie. As he brushed the sand from his shoes, Victor turned, flashed a grin, and said the words that would echo across San Juan Capistrano golf lore forever:
“That’s Razel Dazel, baby.”
