I just finished a survey about my son’s soccer coach.
Btw, WTF’s up with surveys? Everyone’s doing one. You buy a cartoon of milk, and there’s a survey in your email box. I even received a robotic call asking for a survey about his new Pulmonary doctor over the phone, using the digits as answers. I don’t get it.
Anyway, back to his Premier coach who is probably a nice man. From what I hear, he’s a great soccer player (played for the Timbers) and coach. The boys are lucky to get him this late in the game. I rated him accordingly, ’cause I’m not a dick.
They had a great coach. Tasked with the challenge of piecing a B team together after the clusterfuck known as the 2016 spring tryouts, he dove in with relish. Not only did he have a great love of the game, he grew to love the boys, as if each one of them were a part of his own team on the way to one of the most important victories in a major, worldwide match.
That’s how deep his passion went. Like everyone on this planet, he had his good and bad points, but you could never take that passion away from him. He was one of the boys. He also inspired those boys to give their best; any fool could see that in any of the games the team played in this past summer’s tournaments.
A ragtag team like this wasn’t expected to win any game. But they did. A lot of games, actually, together, with a lot of blood, sweat, and even tears. Totally inspiring, I’ll never forget what he did for them, for my own son who had to find some way to fight back after a terrible rejection trying out for another Premier league.
“He’s the best player on the team.”
Coach actually said this before the league replaced him two games into the fall season (for reasons we’ll probably never know). When I told my son, his face grew momentarily dark, tears threatening, as the impact of that sunk in. Someone in a position to know noticed him as an outstanding soccer player, an asset to the team, any team.
Teenaged boys may seem tough. But deep down, they’re still little boys eager to please. For a coach to recognize them for their special qualities in the midst of demanding their best, that’s everything. It’s essential as they begin the long, hard road toward that cold, cruel world of adulthood where it’s every man for himself.
Tough love in a coach is well and good. But a little love in the right direction can do so much to inspire confidence.
As they get older, I don’t see a whole lot of passion or compassion in the adults these teens interact with, least of all in sports. Last night, I watched a soccer practice where another coach (for a higher-level team) just ripped into one or two players he singled out to make a mockery of. He singled my son out too, made everyone feel like He was the ONLY one fucking up. (My son was training up for extra-conditioning.)
I don’t know how that inspires anyone to get better, and I came from that world. My father was a strict but compassionate coach of basketball, football, and baseball. He led his teams to statewide victories as well. Never did I see him publicly humiliate a player in front of the rest of his team to get what he wanted, or to toughen him up.
I don’t mind coaches getting tough with players at all, though. But when that’s all I see, I have to wonder who is the coach and who is the player?
Do you even see my son or is he just a number?
My main worry as a parent was this particular coach coming down so hard on these boys that they begin to believe the so-called tough love spewing out of the guy’s mouth non-stop like a bad case of the runs. As in, maybe I’m not cut out to play soccer after all. Maybe coach is right, and I wouldn’t know how to pass properly if my life depended on it. Maybe I really suck, hey, I should quit.
I hope not. The adults in charge have already done a number on my son about education and other sports he was once gung-ho about, basketball and football namely. (And, he didn’t suck at any of these things.)
I would hate to see him let go of the last dream left because of some high-priced stranger’s idea of perfection.
It’s too bad. They’re missing out on a great kid with a lot to offer.
She buries her treasures in plain sight. Cucumbers and peanuts, for later, while the A-listers dine on caviar and baby calves.
Nobody knows about this place, its marble surfaces, the vacuum of kismet contortions, all these fancy words amounts to a place at the table beside royalty’s cast-offs. On the corner of the table, her words scratched out an old-time love poem ending with initials and a heart. Somewhere a maple tree in between Army Barracks cracks a little.
The drive up the Oregon Coast from the filter of a PBS special reminds her of the day he died, in her heart and in real life, although she wouldn’t know for sure until a random search provided all the information she would need to bury another treasure — a year later.
She can still smell the cold rust of etchings against a stark-white cliff, the dress of a thousand childhood summers, besides this rustling, churning, unforgiving Atlantic East of the day he on the edge of 14 brushed her cheek, before the beatings turned her dreams to dust.
He’s lost at sea, his last letter buried in a shoebox full of her own shit.
In 7th grade, two great things happened: a boy liked me and I discovered the boundless world of writing, not necessarily in that order.
Up until then, I coasted along under the radar. After my dad got stationed in Ft. Dix, I became the new pariah in 5th grade at Newcomb Middle School. I quickly earned the disgust of my teacher, Ms. Rogers, who took to calling me a “moron” and a “lunatic,” because she said I was too “boy crazy” to care about my grades.
After the public humiliation, I worked harder to achieve straight As in 6th grade. When I told Ms. Rogers, she beamed, as if waiting for the sun to come out from the clouds.
English came naturally. I used to be bi-lingual, fluent in both English and Korean until my American Army sergeant dad drummed the foreigner out of me as much as he could so as to better assimilate. Math went over my head, but I enjoyed reading a lot, not thinking much of it.
Then, The Powers That Be placed me in 7th grade English Honors class, by the window and across the room from Bobby, the first boy who ever took notice of me. Every so often, he would glance my way, shy yet helplessly intoxicated by whatever the hell it was that attracted him to me.
Despite that distraction, I flourished in Mrs. Feutschwager’s [sic] English Honors class. That’s when another miracle happened.
Before every new lesson, she would pick up one of her favorite books, reading stories to us, bringing characters to life. I remember discovering O. Henry and the magnificent brilliance of the short story form, falling in love with his and Edgar Allan Poe’s twists and turns, attempting to mimic them with my own efforts.
I remember re-discovering my love for the Westerns my father used to adore watching, feeling the hairs on my arms stand up reading “Shane, the 1946 Jack Schaefer novel that set the tone for a multitude of Hollywood’s quiet anti-heroes to come.
But one day, Mrs. F picked up a history book about D-Day, and the famous Invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944. The way she brought this fateful day to life was 10 times better than any Spielberg movie. I almost felt the blinding terror down to the bones of these young men as they parachuted out of military planes into the water, not knowing if they would even make the plunge.
The words she read didn’t just tell the true story of Normandy. They showed us, in living color, as if we were side by side with these ordinary American men doing their duty and rising up as heroes.
We talk of heroes today in a cavalier, knee-jerk fashion, completely out of context, because that’s what we do as lazy, arrogant bystanders who think we’ve got all our shit together. But these men were heroes.
In the right hands, with the right spirit, words can do more than agitate. They can almost literally transport the reader into another’s soul.
It took two more years before I realized I had a small spark of an ability as a budding writer, when fate put me in the position to be the first-ever underclassman to head up a high school newspaper as the editor-in-chief. That year, Aiea High School won its first statewide journalism competition as “Most Improved.” The 11th annual competition was sponsored by the Hawaii Publishers Association.
I’m also the only alumna from our award-winning, three-year Ka Leo O Aiea staff to pursue an actual journalism degree, and parlay that into a career as a reporter.
Today, at 51, I try to live up to the high standards of those amazing writers and that amazing teacher who instilled in me a love for something bigger than myself. I apply everything I’ve ever learned, the mistakes, the humiliation, the small, quiet triumphs, the under-the-radar, outsider status, to tell other people’s stories as if I’ve lived them too.
I’m nowhere near the level of an O.Henry. But damn, it’s so fucking awesome getting there.
(Jimmy Borges passed away May 30, 2016 from cancer. I interviewed him in 2009, three years before he was diagnosed with and beat liver cancer, only to have the cells move up to his lungs. I’m reposting my Oct. 5, 2009 Jazz Examiner interview here.)
Hawaii’s premier jazz performer Jimmy Borges, 74, has done more, seen more, and lived more than most. He also knows more people on this planet– the famous, the infamous, great musicians, singers, even the local mob – than the average person.
Celebrity friends came about quite naturally during his regular Waikiki club gigs in the 1970s through the 1990s. A born entertainer with a special gift for rearranging standards and putting his audience of tourists, locals, and celebrities at ease, Borges cut his teeth at two primary hotspots: Keone’s on Lewers Street and Trappers at the Hyatt Regency on Kalakaua Avenue. This was back when live music was embraced, appreciated, and attracted the big crowds and the big money, before karaoke, before one-man synth bands, before DJs spinning techno-bad house music and cost the average tax-payer an arm and a leg.
Back in the good, old days of the early ‘70s, Borges held court at a happening place called Keone’s. Backed by a solid band, especially pianist Betty Loo Taylor, Borges did his thing every night except Sundays, 9:30 p.m. till 4 a.m. After 3 a.m., Borges and band really let loose with variations on “Lush Life,” “Wee Small Hours,” and other standards that lent well to improvisation.
The 2008 and 2007 Hoku Lifetime Achievement Award winner, Borges described the scene, night after blessed night: “I was there for four years. It was one of my very favorite places: black-leather, recessed booths, black walls and ceilings, cocktail waitresses dressed in Playboy-bunny outfits, all stunners… smoke hanging in the air like wispy clouds that would rain if you seeded it. It became ‘the place to go.’ I’ve had everyone from Frank Sinatra (who complained because it was ‘too crowded’), Diana Ross, Mel Brooks, Joe Sample, Average White Band, Jose Feliciano, Mel Torme, Mamas and Papas, and Joe Williams to Don Ho (almost every night!), plus every local entertainer and musician who came to sit in or came to learn.”
It was then that Borges earned his reputation as a singer who loved to play with the standards, making it his own, while maintaining each song’s melodic integrity. He’d also get together with the band twice a week to bone up on the new pop songs of the time period, and “jazzify” them. He got so good at this, that even actress Liza Minnelli tried to buy one of his arrangements (James Taylor’s “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight”) from him; he let her have it for free.
Whatever Borges was doing, he was doing it right, because the crowds jam-packed Keone’s every time they performed. Soon, everybody who was anybody headed down there: visiting sports stars and coaches, flight attendants and, yes, the local syndicate.
Members of the powerful, underground, local syndicate were also fans who now and then conveniently took care of the heckling riff-raffs for Borges and the band, but otherwise left the entertainer alone. “They liked me and my music, so I never had a bit of trouble,” Borges explained.
One night, a famous actor named Jack Lord from a famous TV show called Hawaii Five-O came by to check out Borges and his band. Borges’ innate charm, infectious energy, winning, local-kine personality, and ability to riff conversationally with the patrons in between songs and sets won him over with Lord, who came with a novel acting proposal. “I had never acted before (on film) so I asked him, ‘Why me?’” Borges said. “He replied that he would save the production money, since I could think on my feet and not be flustered by dialogue flubs and would continue on until I fed the cue line to the next actor, consequently less cuts by the director, saving shoot time.”
Subsequent acting gigs followed on nearly every TV show based or filmed in Hawaii, from The Jeffersons, Charlie’s Angels, and The Rockford Files, to Magnum P.I., Jake And The Fatman, and The Islander. And he did commercials for United Airlines, Sunkist Orange Juice, and many other products/services.
Keeping up an acting and music schedule was hairy for the multi-talented Hawaii star. “I’d get off my gig at 4 a.m. and head directly to the studio, where they would put make-up on me and I slept until I was called on the set. Did this for many years,” he said. “With all the side stuff going on, music was always at the core of my creative soul. If I had to choose between a great music gig or a film shoot, I always picked the music. For some unbalanced reason, I think that made the producers want me more, who knows?!”
After four years headlining at Keone’s, Jimmy Borges moved on to Captain Nemo’s down the street, which then became the Jazz Cellar. After six months there, developer Chris Hemmeter came to him with the perfect gig. Hemmeter had completed work on a new hotel, the Hyatt Waikiki and added a special nightclub just for Borges to perform in. That was the birth of the legendary Trappers.
On the strength of Borges’ name and reputation alone, he and the band (Betty Loo Taylor on piano, Steve Jones/Gerry Roush/Bruce Hamada/Lyle Ritz on bass, Noel Okimoto on drums, Sam Ahia or Jimmy Funai on guitar, David Choi on sax or his brother Junior on trumpet) earned a real salary, complete with vacation, sick days, full medical coverage and paid union dues/fees.
From 1977 to New Year’s Eve-1986, Borges and his band jammed with an implausible array of VIP big shots: The Count Basie Band, Wynton Marsalis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Al Jarreau, Mel Torme, Jean “Toots” Thielemans, Mavis Rivers, Anita O’Day, Smokey Robinson, Joe Williams, Joe Feliciano, Kay Starr, Connie Haines, Ginny Simms, Robert Goulet…
What would usually happen is, a big-name artist would come to Hawaii to do a concert, then afterwards go to Borges’ gig to unwind. Eventually, they’d be coaxed up onstage to perform with and/or in place of Borges. It happened a lot. Sometimes, they’d stick around and just hang out with Borges and the band during their off hours. Marsalis spent a week longer than he’d planned once, to enjoy Hawaii like a local and shoot some hoops with Borges’ drummer and trumpeter.
In 1984, Borges made sure to include a one-week-a-month Jazz Stars program, which turned the crowd out even more, so they could catch the likes of Bill Watrous, Bobby Hutcherson, Freddy Hubbard and Joe Sample for two whole sets nightly, with no cover charge. “One night, the Beach Boys came in and put on an impromptu concert for all of us,” Borges recalled. “Those were great times for music.”
When it was time to go — management cluelessly thought turning Trappers into a rock ‘n roll venue — Tony Bennett joined Borges up on stage to ring in the new year, 1987, and bid loyal customers goodbye. Trappers was never the same since.
Trappers and Keone’s are long gone. Gone by way of passing fads and misguided attempts at keeping up with the youth demographic, while trying in vain to draw in the coveted big-money of the Japanese tourists. Meanwhile, live music in Hawaii has suffered tremendously. Borges agreed, “Times have changed in Waikiki. Most hotels employ single guitarists/pianists/singers and music is treated like a semi-necessary evil. Very little respect for the art form. Consequently, the locals don’t come into Waikiki, and the ‘Hawaiian Experience’ for the visitor mingling with the local doesn’t come to fruition.”
But despite the passing fads and trends, Jimmy Borges remains a classic constant, the standard crossing all musical genres – standing the test of time and wavering musical trends – still out there doing occasional gigs, benefits and concerts, when he’s not traveling with his wife Vicki, winning golf tournaments, and mentoring up-and-coming singers.
He may have retired from the regular nightclub gigs that used to last till 2 a.m. past, but he still performs.
His next gig is coming up this Wednesday at Gordon Biersch-Aloha Tower Marketplace (6:30 p.m.-9:30 p.m.), in fact, featuring his Jazz All-Stars – Dan Del Negro, Darryl Pellegrini, Steve Jones, DeShannon Higa, Robert Shinoda, and super New York sax man, George Young. The following week, the man Honolulu Advertiser’s entertainment writer Wayne Harada named “one of the 50 notable islanders who’ve influenced the entertainment world since Statehood” will attend a St. Louis School soiree at the Sheraton Waikiki, where he will receive the Distinguished Achiever Award.
Next month, Borges and actor/singer Jim Nabors (Gomer Pyle) will perform a Christmas show at downtown Honolulu’s Hawaii Theatre for three nights, November 27-29. Then, there are commitments to do some small, local concerts December through January, his Sinatra Music Tribute with the New Mexico Symphony March 6, 2010 in Albuquerque, another similar tribute with the Honolulu Symphony April 31/May 1 at the Concert Hall, a CD of his work, a documentary about his life, his autobiography (“Confessions Of A Saloon Singer”)…
Knowing Jimmy Borges, that autobiography is sure to become an instant bestseller.