By Alex Coffey
The Philadelphia Inquirer
PHILADELPHIA — Kelly Davis is at every Phillies game, home and away, and is almost always in the background. Sometimes, he’ll sit on a stool behind third base coach Dusty Wathan. Other times, he’ll stand at the bottom of the dugout steps, not far from manager Rob Thomson. But he is never, ever the focal point — which is exactly how he likes it.
Despite his preference for anonymity, Davis has an incredibly important job. Since 2020, he has been the Phillies’ manager of team security. Whenever they’re at work, he’s at work, making sure the players, coaches and their families are safe.
While this is what they pay him to do, it is not the only thing he does. Over the last five years, Davis’ role has evolved. He’s become something akin to a team therapist. Players have turned to him for personal and professional advice, and more than a few have asked to hear stories from his surprisingly colorful past.
The 62-year-old Chicago native spent 28 years in the Chicago Police Department, first as a uniformed officer, and then undercover in the city’s housing projects. He transitioned to narcotics, where he would make deals with local drug traffickers.
That was his day job.
Beginning in 1995, he found the rowdiest side gig in sports: serving, for four years, as Dennis Rodman’s personal security guard. He accompanied the Bulls star to games and nightclubs, on trips to Vegas and wedding dress-themed book signings.
“When I heard that, that definitely made me feel … safe,” said outfielder Brandon Marsh. “Because I know Rodman has been through it and done some stuff. So I know we’re good with Kelly. This is vacation for him.”
Davis laughed at Marsh’s comment. It’s true that his job is not as chaotic as it once was. He is no longer dodging bullets as a street cop or keeping watch over one of the most controversial stars in NBA history. But through it all, he has kept the same calm demeanor.
His boss, Sal DeAngelis, calls it “Zen-like.”
“We have compared him to Phil Jackson in the past,” DeAngelis said, referring to the former Bulls and Lakers head coach.
Right fielder Nick Castellanos has another word for it.
“Centered,” Castellanos said. “Whether we’re on a crazy win streak or in a pretty tough time, he’s always the same.”
Calm amid chaos
Davis has always been unflappable, even amid the bigotry he faced as a child. His parents, William and Adele, were born in the South. They met picking cotton in North Carolina and moved to Chicago in 1955.
The family of six — three sons and one daughter — lived in a small apartment in Uptown, a predominantly Black neighborhood on the north side. Davis and his brothers, Eric and William Jr., shared a room.
In 1968, Davis’ father attempted to relocate the family to Ravenswood, a middle-class community not far from Uptown. A nearby bank refused to give him a loan. “They told him, ‘You can’t live here,’” Davis said. His father’s boss, Robert Anderson, who was a top executive at Sears, Roebuck and Co., stepped in.
“Mr. Anderson said to go back to the same bank and speak to the same loan officer,” Davis said. “And as soon as my parents got there, the door swung open. The bank people said, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Davis, the paperwork is ready for you.’”
Things didn’t get easier from there. Theirs was the only Black family in Ravenswood. People would throw debris at their house and damage their car. One time, someone dropped a makeshift bomb onto their porch.
He learned to time his walks to school so he wouldn’t have to wait at a red light. If he stopped for too long, passersby would spit on him or chuck drinks from their cars.
“I was 10 years old,” Davis said. “I’m like, ‘What’s going on? I don’t understand this.’”
It didn’t take long for him to gravitate to a career in law enforcement. After graduating high school, Davis studied criminal justice at the University of Northern Colorado. In 1988, he was hired by the Chicago Police Department.
He began work as an undercover cop in the narcotics unit in 1995 and stayed in that role for 15 years. It was harrowing, dangerous work, but Davis’ temperament was perfect for it.
“When you’re in a shootout, that adrenaline is flowing through your body at its peak,” he said. “And it’s easy to kind of lose yourself, but you do have to remain calm. Luckily, I can definitely remain calm.”
(Davis said he has been shot at “multiple times.”)
About a month before the start of the 1995-96 NBA season, he received a call from a childhood friend, George Triantafillo. Triantafillo worked as a security guard at the United Center, the home of the Bulls, and had interacted with Rodman a few times.
Now, Rodman and Triantafillo were out at a club, and Triantafillo wanted Davis to join them.
“I’m like, ‘I don’t want to hang out with him,’” Davis recalled saying. “He pushed [Bulls star] Scottie Pippen into the [stanchion] in the [1991] playoffs. And he cut his chin. I’m like, ‘[expletive] that guy.’”
After some persuasion from his friend, Davis ended up going to the club. He drove Rodman home that night. They exchanged phone numbers and continued to meet up.
Davis and Triantafillo began looking out for Rodman in an unofficial capacity, by helping to manage crowds that formed around the Bulls star. Rodman’s agent soon hired them as his personal security team.
It was the beginning of one the most chaotic periods of Davis’ life.
“There were so many stories that Dennis and I had an imaginary book,” he said. “Every time something crazy would happen, we would say, ‘That’s Chapter 80.’”
Protecting Rodman — from himself
Despite Rodman’s aesthetic — the hair dye, the piercings, the makeup — Davis described him as an “introvert.” But the power forward was prone to reckless decision-making, so Davis’ job was to protect him from himself.
They set some early ground rules. Rodman wouldn’t carry a gun. He wouldn’t answer hotel doors, accept packages, or pick up the phone.
When the team was on the road, they would have adjoining hotel rooms. And when Rodman drank, he wouldn’t drive.
“The Worm” didn’t always like these rules, but he listened. And as far as Davis knows, he never broke them. During the four seasons Davis protected Rodman, he said Rodman avoided legal trouble.
“If I got six hours of sleep a night for those four years,” Davis said, “that might be exaggerating.”
Still, Rodman was given to impulsive behavior. In 1996, he decided to promote his upcoming autobiography by marrying someone at a book signing in New York. But there was a problem: Radio host Howard Stern, who was supposed to play the bride, backed out at the last minute.
So Rodman showed up to Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue in a $10,000 wedding gown. Davis, dressed in a black T-shirt and black pants, weaved the NBA star through the crowd and into the store, where a group of women wearing tuxedos was waiting for him.
There were countless trips to Las Vegas, including a lavish one during the 1997 NBA Finals. Rodman, Davis and Triantafillo flew to Nevada after Game 1 in Chicago and returned just in time for the team’s practice ahead of Game 2.
Before they left, Jackson gave them strict instructions.
“Practice starts at 10 o’clock,” the head coach told the security guards. “We know the media is waiting for him. Do not bring him in here after 10 o’clock. Don’t do it.”
They showed up at 9:57 a.m.
“We weren’t late,” Davis said with a laugh.
The security guard sat on the bench for almost the entirety of the Bulls’ championship three-peat. He got to know the team’s other legendary stars: Michael Jordan and Pippen, along with role player and future Warriors coach Steve Kerr.
His time with Jordan, in particular, left a lasting impression. In 1998, when the Bulls were playing the Hornets in an Eastern Conference semifinal game in Charlotte, N.C., Davis saw three women sitting outside the visiting locker room. He politely told them to move and was later made aware that one of the women was Hornets star Glen Rice’s wife.
She told her husband that Davis had been rude to them, and Rice asked Davis for an apology. He wouldn’t give one. The two men argued back and forth outside the Bulls’ team bus, and when Davis walked on, everyone was looking at him.
Jordan was sitting in the back. He took a puff of his cigar, a swig of his Heineken, and turned to the security guard.
“Kelly, [expletive] that [expletive],” Jordan said. “His season is over when we win on [Wednesday].”
“He didn’t have to say that to me,” Davis said. “But big brother is always big brother. And it’s good to have a big brother like MJ.”
Because he was working so much at that time, moments like these blurred together. But they came rushing back when Davis watched the ESPN documentary series, “The Last Dance,” in 2020. He felt a sense of closure. After all those years of action-packed, sleepless nights, the security guard finally could take in the enormity of his experiences.
There was one story, though, that was missing. It came a few minutes after the Bulls won their third straight championship, in 1998.
“Everyone was filing off the court,” Davis said. “And it was all very quiet, like a regular season win. There was no music. Michael then goes to security and says, ‘Is everyone in here who needs to be in here?’
“They look around and close the door. And we all stood in the middle of the locker room, and we said the Lord’s Prayer.”
After it was done, the cameras came back in. The champagne started to spray and the players cranked up the stereo. But Davis will always remember that moment.
“That one was my favorite,” he said.
Connecting with the Phillies
The Phillies had never employed a dedicated security guard for their players. Different staff members would go on road trips, but DeAngelis, the team’s vice president of operations and security, knew that wasn’t a long-term solution. So they started looking around, and in the winter of 2019, DeAngelis came across Davis’ resumé on a sports job board.
He had retired from the police department in May of 2017 and did part-time security work for the Oklahoma City Thunder whenever they were in town, but was still looking for a full-time job. Davis assumed it would be in the NBA and was shocked when the Phillies contacted him.
He had no experience in baseball and hadn’t applied for an opening. But after some phone interviews and an in-person meeting, he was hired.
The security guard didn’t know what to expect. He’d be moving to a new city and a new sport with a completely different culture. Despite those changes, he quickly discovered that the players gravitated to him. He’d tell them stories about Rodman and the 1990s Bulls and even recycled some of the techniques he used to inspire athletes in Chicago.
Two years ago, Davis told Castellanos about one of those techniques. Whenever Rodman was losing focus, he’d look at Davis, sitting on the bench. Davis would give him a salute, and Rodman would give him one back.
They both knew what it meant.
“Lock it in,” Davis said.
The right fielder and the security guard decided to make it their own. Now, whenever Davis walks past Castellanos, whether it’s in the clubhouse, the dugout, or somewhere else, he puts his hand to his head. Castellanos does the same.
“Every time he gives me that, I know exactly where he is, if that makes sense,” Castellanos said. “It’s just grounding for me.”
The players don’t always have to ask Davis for support. In 2023, when Trea Turner was going through a prolonged slump, the security guard sent him a text.
He listed some of the other athletes he’d been around — Jordan, Pippen, Rodman, Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O’Neal — and said he’d seen them go through hard times, too.
“The one common thread between them all,” Davis told Turner, “was that they always held their heads high. Their confidence within themselves never wavered an ounce. They always took small steps by concentrating on the moment.”
It was Aug. 4, the night fans greeted Turner with a standing ovation at Citizens Bank Park. The shortstop went on to hit an RBI single, en route to a blisteringly hot August and September. He was surprised to hear from Davis but appreciated the gesture.
“He’d say, ‘Just make moments,’” Turner said. “‘Have moments.’ Shortly after that, when I started playing better, he would stop me and go, ‘That was a moment right there.’ It was just [about] being present. Not that I wasn’t trying to do that to begin with, but hearing from somebody like him helped.”
After Bryce Harper suffered a broken left thumb in June 2022, he went to Triple-A Lehigh Valley for a two-game rehab stint. Davis went with him. The drive was 2 1/2 hours round trip. It gave the superstar and the security guard plenty of time to get to know each other.
“I learned about him and his life growing up,” Harper said. “It was pretty cool to hear a lot of the stories. He’s seen it, man. He’s been around the block.
“He would talk about Rodman. The Carmen Electra [Rodman’s former girlfriend] stuff. [Forty-eight] hours in Vegas or whatever that was. We talked a lot about his upbringing. But it was just good to get to know him. I’ve got a lot of respect for him.”
A few years ago, Marsh’s mother, Sonja, reached out to Davis. She wanted him to be aware that April 6 was the anniversary of Marsh’s father’s death, just in case her son seemed down.
That turned out to be a busy day, and on April 9, Marsh’s mother reached out again, for something unrelated. Davis remembered the promise he had made. He went into the weight room to look for the center fielder and found him lying on the floor.
“Stand up,” Davis said.
“Yes sir,” Marsh responded.
Davis wrapped his arms around him.
“This is for April 6,” he said. “I’m proud of you. I love you. I just wanted to give you a hug.”
Moments of reflection
Davis still lives in Chicago during the offseason, not far from Uptown. Whenever he’s back, he drives past his old apartment. He follows the route he used to take to school, goes by the bank that once rejected a loan to his parents, and ends at his childhood home in Ravenswood.
He thinks about William and Adele’s sacrifice, starting with the cotton they picked under the Carolina sun. He thinks about the times when his family barely had any food; when he and his brothers were crammed into a bedroom on the third floor.
And then he thinks about what he has seen since. The three NBA championships, the World Series, the private moments that will never be shown in a documentary.
“This is where I was,” he says to himself. “And this is where I am now.”
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