Editor’s Note — On Aug. 8, Juan Antonio “Chi Chi” Rodriguez died at age 88. Born in Puerto Rico one of six children and raised in poverty, he would go on to become a champion golfer who won eight times on the PGA Tour and 22 senior tour titles. His showmanship on the course elevated his legendary status, and his philanthropy off it extended his impact well beyond the sport. With his passing, we’re republishing this December 2003 “My Shot” interview that Rodriguez did with long-time Golf Digest writer Guy Yocom.

Do I hold any records? Yeah. I was a bartender at age 12.

A woman in a van was delivering me and some kids from the Chi Chi Rodriguez Youth Foundation to the golf course from the Orlando airport. When we got in the van, I had a premonition. “When we come to the first intersection, don’t be the first car in line,” I told her. “A truck full of gravel is going to tip over and hit that first car.” She laughed, but I told her it was no laughing matter and insisted she let a car pull in front of us at the intersection. When the light turned green, a dump truck full of gravel tipped over on that first car. The accident was very violent, and I’m sure someone was killed or injured. I’m clairvoyant. My premonitions of danger have saved me and others many times.

That commercial where Tiger Woods bounces the ball on his clubface and hits it is amazing, isn’t it? All I could do was run at full speed, bouncing the ball on the clubface as I went along—and bounce the ball on the head of a claw hammer and catch it there, the ball spinning like a top. But Tiger is better than average.

My grandparents on my father’s side both lived to be 114. On my mother’s side, they both lived to be 100. With genes like that, I think I’ll die at 120.

It’s a custom in Puerto Rico for the father to have his sons light his cigarettes and hand them to him. That’s how I started smoking when I was 10. I smoked three to four packs a day for close to 50 years, then quit. A year later the doctor said I had the lungs of a 15year-old. Genetics are everything. My Uncle Jesus consumed a bottle of rum and five packs of cigarettes a day, and he lived to be 106.

Last week I made a six-foot putt. The crowd applauded. As I walked off the green a lady said, “Chi Chi, you didn’t do your sword dance.” I said, “Ma’am, that putt was for a double bogey.” People must know, to make the monkey dance, you must first give him a banana.

The sword dance is a drama. I am a matador. The hole is a bull. When the ball goes in the hole I’ve already slain the bull, so the sword fight with the putter isn’t necessary except to flaunt my skill. I wipe the blood from the sword with my handkerchief and return the sword to its scabbard. Then I go to the next hole and look for another bull.

I like watching the young guys. All of them except Jim Furyk. I like his swing, but the way he gets over the ball and then backs off—on every shot—drives me crazy. I have to turn the TV off.

My pet peeve is when the commissioner of the PGA Tour walks by our dinner table and says hello to everyone except me.

God gave me fast hands. I was sitting at a bar one time with John Brodie. Out of the corner of his eye he saw my hands flash in the air. “What was that?” he asked. “I’m catching flies,” I said. “If you caught a fly out of mid-air, I’ll give you $100,” John said. I opened both hands and tossed two flies on the table. I said, “Better make that $200.”

I walked home from the golf course one day with the 50 cents I made caddieing. A man we called Presidio, which in Spanish means “jail,” goaded me into playing craps. You’re thinking this is going to have a bad ending, but it doesn’t. I came home with $16—1 felt sorry for Presidio and gave $2 back to him—and my father used that money to put electricity in our house. Many years later, I ran in to Presidio. He was wearing a suit. He said, “You made me what I am. My father gave me a terrible beating for losing the grocery money. He sent me to church to ask forgiveness, and today I am a minister.”

The best money player I ever saw was Doug Sanders. Here’s how good Doug was: In 1964,1 was practicing alongside Doug when a spectator called out, “Sanders, you don’t hit it as straight as people say you do.” Doug turned to the guy and pulled a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills from his money clip. “I’ll hit one ball with this driver,” he said, “and bet you a thousand dollars my caddie doesn’t have to move more than two steps to catch it.” The guy says, “You’re on.” Doug makes the guy show his thousand dollars. Then he hits the ball 255 yards, and the caddie catches it on one hop. His feet don’t move. Doug takes the guy’s $1,000 and goes back to practicing like nothing happened.

I don’t believe in the death penalty anymore. When was the last time a rich person was executed?

Like all boys in Puerto Rico, I dreamed of becoming a baseball player. My idol was Chi Chi Flores, who was known for his hustle. I ran around the ballpark telling everyone, “I’m Chi Chi Flores, I’m Chi Chi Flores.” So they started calling me Chi Chi. I haven’t been called Juan since I was 12 years old.

I could have played in the major leagues, by the way. I was a pitcher, and at age 18 I threw the ball 100 miles per hour. Faster than Koufax. Ken Still caught Koufax and Drysdale, and he’ll tell you, I threw harder. In Puerto Rico I played with Juan Pizarro, Orlando Cepeda and Roberto Clemente. I wasn’t quite as good as Juan Marichal, but I was good. I quit baseball when I joined the Army. You had to choose a sport, and I chose golf, because I figured I could play it longer.

The only difference I see in Tiger’s game lately is that he’s hitting the wrong club a lot. When I first saw him going long and coming up short, I started watching the situation more closely. You know what? He’s not getting along with his caddie. I can see it. The magic between those two guys, the connection that makes a caddie pull the right club every time, is gone.

There wasn’t enough to eat in the barrio. We had a dirt floor and no electricity. What I remember most about that was how nice my mother made that floor look. She groomed the dirt till it shined. You didn’t want to walk on it, she made it look so nice.

My mother made small fires to cook with. She heated a large can of water once and my oldest brother accidentally knocked it over. The water went in his ears and burned him everywhere. He died. That was before I was born. But they told me my mother was never the same after that.

We were happy, though. I’d give everything I have now to have what I had then.

For fun we used to swim in the river. A very bad man named Moreno hung out there. He’d take one of us and hold our head under water until our body almost went slack, then he’d lift you out and laugh like hell. He did this to me once, and I told my father. Well, Moreno came into town one day, and my father got his gun. He said, “You had fun with my children, Moreno, and now I am going to have fun with you. Jump, Moreno!” And he fired his gun at Moreno’s feet. “Now run, Moreno!” and he fired the gun some more, made Moreno run behind a tree. Then my dad put two bullets into the tree. You’ve never seen a man so terrified as this Moreno. He never bothered anyone again.

On the first hole of a Southern Open, I hit my drive to the right. I asked my caddie where it went and he said, “That ball is dead.” My answer to that was, “It’s not as dead as you are. Drop the bag; you’re fired.” I can’t stand being around negative thinkers.

There’s all kinds of genius in the world. Ever see a good carpenter hammer nails, one after another, fast, and all of them perfect? That man is a genius—what I call a “muscle genius.” The only muscle genius I saw in golf was Sam Snead. And he’s the only man I’ve ever seen who could sit in a chair and touch both elbows on the floor.

One six-foot putt for my life, Tiger or Jack? I’ll take David Toms.

All my life I’ve had the same nightmare. In the dream I can fly, and I land in a cherry tree. A man with a machete stands under the tree and tries to chop my feet off. I hop to a higher branch and then another, until I’m at the top and there’s nowhere else to go. Finally I take off and fly low down the road, and a car comes at me. I think I’ll tilt my wings and let the car pass under me, but when I try it nothing happens. Just before the car hits me, I wake up sweating. I’d give anything to stop having that dream.

When we were caddies we used to sneak on to the golf course real early. One day I was playing a match with a friend for a nickel. I make a 20-foot putt, and a toad jumps out of the hole, and the ball, of course, comes out with him. My friend wouldn’t count the putt. So when I turned pro, one of my gimmicks was to throw my hat over the hole so the ball wouldn’t pop out. The galleries loved it, but some of the other pros complained that I was damaging the hole. Joe Dey asked me to find some other gimmick, so that’s when I came up with the sword dance.

David Duval’s problem is very simple. Are you listening, David? Let the club dip past parallel at the top. Cock your wrists more. If you’ve got a strong left-hand grip, the worst thing you can do is shorten your swing.

One day about 20 years ago, Bill Hayes, who started the Chi Chi Rodriguez Youth Foundation with me, rescued a kid who was hiding in the ceiling of a home. His father had abused him so many times he couldn’t talk. We took him in, and I worked with him. At first the boy could barely make a sound. He got to where he could stammer, but no words would come out that you could understand. We gave him lots of love and attention, and eventually he was adopted by a millionaire family in Texas. Years later, I asked him to speak at a function for the foundation. He said, “Uncle Chi Chi, what do I tell these people?” I told him he should just speak from his heart. That evening, our boy, dressed in a nice suit, gave the most eloquent speech I’ve ever heard. I started crying and couldn’t stop. The mayor had to hold me. There are a thousand success stories from our foundation, but this one stands out.

Are you listening, David Duval? I just won you $5 million.