Remembering Gator

My brother’s given name was Gerald Edward Lewis, a name that only his teachers and, later in life, a few of his employers ever used. My father liked to joke that my brother got his nickname because he enjoyed playing around in the swamp near the house we lived in before we moved. As intriguing as Papa’s claim about the origin of Gator’s nickname, I have always suspected that my father made it up because he didn’t know how his son became known as Gator. I certainly never bought Papa’s version. After all, I remember that swamp, and I know my brother could be fearless. Still, I doubt if even he was brave enough to venture into that snake-invested wetland to play, especially as a child. Besides, I am only thirteen months younger than my brother, and we played together all the time while growing up, especially in places where we were told not to. The swamp was one of those places, and except for the few times we defied our parents and scavenged around the edges to catch a frog or salamander to torture, I don’t recall ever playing near the swamp.
However, or wherever Gator got his nickname, it never seemed to bother him in the least. If anything, he appreciated its implicit comparison of him to an alligator whose physical strength and intimidating appearance he admired. I, for one, always believed that the name suited him well, mainly because one of the things I most admired about my brother growing up was his toughness. He was one of those boys who seemed to have started building muscles by doing pull-ups in his crib. From an early age, he had a stocky build that made him appear stronger and older than he really was. He also had confidence in himself, making him seem intimidating, even though I have never known anyone who could be kinder or gentler than Gator. Although he was never the tallest boy around or particularly overweight for his age, he would rarely refuse a physical challenge, especially if the challenger was another human being. He wasn’t a bully by any means, but he seemed to have a knack for getting into fights. Even so, I can never recall a fight that anybody thought he did not win, except perhaps the loser.
If Gator ever did lose a fight, it was not one he lost defending me, and he had ample opportunities to come to my rescue. With my slight frame, mild-mannered demeanor, and reputation for being studious, some might say that I was the kind of kid that bullies liked to pick on. Despite my appearance of being a bully magnet, I still suspect that most of my scraps came about because I was Gator’s brother. That is, most of the beatdowns I received were started by kids who were either angry with Gator or had been one of his victims in an earlier fight. Still, I couldn’t understand why anyone who knew who I was couldn’t figure out that messing with me was like poking the proverbial sleeping bear, whose name happened to be Gator. Yet, there always seemed to be some brave soul around who thought that baiting Gator by going after me or my sister, Lynn, was a smart thing to do.
If Gator took any of his responsibilities as the oldest child seriously, I would say that it was his duty to protect my sister and me, although he sometimes went too far. I remember the time he nearly broke the back of a boy who had me pinned on the ground and was pounding his fist into my body. The boy, who was older and bigger than me, had deliberately started the fight by picking on my little sister, Lynn. Apparently, he wanted to provoke a fight with Gator but was afraid to confront him directly. When the boy began picking on Lynn, I’m not sure if he knew Gator wasn’t in the area. But I was. Although I knew I couldn’t beat the boy, I also knew that I couldn’t go home and tell Papa that I let a boy pick on my little sister without intervening. So, I stepped up to protect Lynn in Gator’s absence, and the inevitable happened.
By the time Gator showed up, I was lying helpless on the ground, enduring the pain of being punched repeatedly. Gator simply walked over to where the boy had me pinned, reached down with one hand, grabbed the boy by his belt, and flung him several feet away. I was too busy clearing the cobwebs from my head to see what happened to the boy afterward. I know he didn’t report what Gator did to the principal, probably out of embarrassment. And no one saw or heard from him for several days when he finally returned to school with a slight limp. After his encounter with Gator, he kept his distance from my sister and me, and I suspect his interest in engaging Gator in a fight waned substantially after the incident.
That was only one side of Gator. He was most in his element when playing sports. No one will forget Gator’s heroics on the basketball court during the game for the state championship his senior year. None of the oddsmakers in the state gave our school from the little town of Dillard much of a chance to win against its opponent, which had won the championship the previous two years. When our team was down by ten points at the end of the first half, it looked like the naysayers were correct in predicting the game’s outcome. Then, in the second half, Gator took the game over on defense and offense, blocking the other team’s shots right and left and scoring twenty points in the half to tie the game with only seconds to go. When the opposing team missed a shot, and Gator got the rebound, he quickly dribbled the ball down toward the other end of the court. The other team expected him to go in for a lay-up and quickly put defenders in a position to stop him. That was when Gator crossed midcourt, stopped, and shot his game-winning jumper. The crowd went crazy, and Gator went home with the MVP trophy.