HANGING WITH THE GATOR

Some people meet their heroes in arenas, pressed against barricades with cameras in the air.
 I met mine over a bowl of collard greens at a table where President Obama once sat.

The Wilkes House in Savannah has been feeding strangers like family since 1870. What was once a boarding house run by the formidable Sema Wilkes is now a lunchtime-only Southern institution. The brick walls, patched with the occasional new brick, are lined with faded photos and framed newspaper clippings, while mismatched wooden chairs hug old tables worn smooth by decades of elbows.

The matron in a blue floral dress and white apron led me to the “Obama seat”—the same place the former president took lunch during a visit here. Ten or so people were already gathered, the air thick with the scent of fried okra and cornbread. Within minutes, it felt like we’d all known each other for years. I landed next to two Canadian women, and at the far end sat a tall, fit man in a gray polo with the logo: Unforgettable Bakery & Café—Healthy Cooking with Southern Sweetness.

Everyone seemed to know him. Staff stopped to shake his hand; locals waved. I caught his name only in passing—something unusual, maybe “Gator.” After a round of introductions, bowls began to land on the table: collard greens, green beans, mashed potatoes, cucumbers, sweet tea, and sweet potato pie to finish. The food tasted like Sunday afternoons from my childhood.

When lunch ended, the man in the gray shirt came down to greet me personally. That’s when I heard it clearly: Larry “Gator” Rivers.

And that name meant something.

Larry “Gator” Rivers wasn’t just another Savannah local—he was a former Harlem Globetrotter, one of basketball’s most famous showmen. The Globetrotters weren’t just athletes; they were ambassadors of joy, spinning basketballs on fingertips, dribbling circles around opponents, and bridging racial divides decades before sports leagues integrated. They had played to sold-out arenas in over a hundred countries. They were legends.

And Gator? His journey began when he was a seven-year-old boy in Savannah. His mother—just twelve when she had him—took him to see the Globetrotters in a movie. One player, Marcus Haynes, dribbled with such artistry that it lit something in Gator’s soul.

“I thought, I can do that,” he told me the next day in his office—a cramped space in a wood-and-construction-scented building where he mentors neighborhood kids. His walls were lined with Globetrotter memorabilia: photos, jerseys, souvenirs from around the world.

Thirteen years after that movie, fate played its hand. Gator was a sophomore at Missouri Western, playing in a preliminary game before the Globetrotters took the court. He spotted Marcus Haynes—his childhood hero—standing in the doorway, watching. Gator promptly stole the ball from a teammate and launched into Haynes’s famous dribble routine. Haynes slapped high fives, pointed at him, and later invited him to Globetrotters training camp.

He didn’t go right away. But the seed was planted.

Growing Up in Savannah’s Crawford Square, life for young Gator wasn’t easy. During Jim Crow, Crawford Square was the only downtown park Black children could use. Basketball became his refuge. At eleven, he quit a Boys Club team because they wouldn’t give him the same jersey as the others. A little feisty, he admits.

But he kept playing, teaming with a friend named Andrew Knolls, winning championships at every level. By the mid-1960s, he was starring for Alfred E. Beach High School.

In 1967, in the first season Georgia allowed Black schools to play white schools, Gator’s team won the state championship. “We had something to prove,” he said. “It was the height of the civil rights movement. We wanted to show that we mattered.” Five thousand people met them at Savannah’s train station when they returned. That victory is still celebrated fifty years later.

Eventually, Gator joined the Globetrotters, traveling the world and performing in cities most Americans couldn’t find on a map. But beyond the trick shots and comedic skits, the Globetrotters carried a message of unity. “Anywhere we went,” Gator said, “people saw us together—Black and white players, traveling as one team. That mattered.”

When he retired, he could have lived anywhere. Instead, he came home to Savannah. He poured his energy into mentoring kids in his old neighborhood, teaching discipline, work ethic, and self-belief.

I asked what had changed most since his childhood.

“When I was growing up,” he said, “our attitude was, we’re gonna show you. Now I hear kids say, you show me what you got—what you gonna do for me? That’s a different attitude. It’s hard to work with.”

Still, he keeps showing up—because he knows how one encounter can change a life.

The History Lesson I Didn’t Expect. Our talk wandered through Savannah’s history. He told me how General Sherman spared the city in 1864 after Black clergy persuaded him to see its beauty. As a “Christmas gift” to President Lincoln, Savannah was preserved. Those same leaders asked for three things for their newly freed people: education, land to build homes, and food security. The government promised forty acres and a mule, only to renege after Lincoln’s assassination.

His comments, a reflection of our culture's ever-shifting tides, echoed the sentiments of the new generation. The world is changing, constantly changing, and with it, the aspirations and ideals of those who will shape its future.

The next morning, Larry Gator Rivers invited me to meet him at his favorite morning spot, owned by a friend of his, the Unforgettable Bakery. The coffee, the baked goods, and the place lived up to its name. And so was my morning conversation with Gator Rivers. Gator had a way of helping things and people live up to their name.

When I met Gator Rivers, I thought I was just getting lunch in Savannah. Instead, I walked away with a living history lesson, a civil rights story, and a personal reminder that grit and generosity are timeless. I had the pleasure of hanging out with a superstar human being who made a profound impact on my life and gave me a role model for helping younger people who may just need a mentor to listen, work with them, and point the way. 
 I will never forget what Gator Rivers’ story means to me. The guy wasn’t just a Harlem Globetrotter—he was a walking legend, a basketball superstar, still inspiring everyone around him. A reminder that magic is real and dreams do come true. He set his sights on that dream of his when he was seven. Gator was eyeing a jersey, seeing his future, and saying, “That’s gonna be me.” And it was. His journey was everything a Southern tale should be: grit, grind, and a dream that refused to stay quiet. That kind of focus, that kind of heart—it’s rare.

I want to be like Gator: smile big, move fast, and never forget that greatness isn’t just about winning—it’s also about why you play.