Ali And His Entourage

When the comet ride with Ali began, Patterson was a 31-year-old cop on the streets of Chicago. When it ended, he was a 45-year-old cop on the streets of Chicago. He had two children, a loving wife, a close-knit family, 50 scrapbooks and a couple of walls of photographs that a ghetto kid never dreamed he would have, and for all of that he was grateful.

He got the bodyguard job through a chance meeting. The day he was assigned to protect the leader of the Black Muslim movement in America, Elijah Muhammad, back in the mid-'60s, he stuck a gun into a face coming out of the darkness: Herbert Muhammad, Elijah's son and Ali's manager. Herbert wanted just such a businesslike fellow to protect his boxer, and Patterson became the Bodyguard. He worked primarily during the weeks of fights until 1974, when he was put on permanent loan to Ali by Chicago mayor Richard Daley.

Whenever they met, Ali made a game of guessing where Patterson's gun was hidden. One time it might be the Colt Diamondback strapped to his ankle, the next time, the 9-mm automatic tucked under his suit coat; then again, if it was cold enough for an overcoat, the Colt and a .38 would be buried in his pockets. Upon reaching Ali's hotel suite, the Bodyguard would hide the pistols in a flower vase or beneath a sofa cushion, so he would always have one near, along with the shotgun he kept in a closet or under the bed. In a briefcase he carried as much as $50,000 in cash—spending money for the champ.

His protective instinct was fierce. At Yankee Stadium on the night of the fight against Ken Norton in 1976, he had a $400 leather suit ripped to shreds while fighting off a mob from the fender of Ali's limo. He turned down four-figure bribes from people desperate to get past his checkpoint in hotel hallways and see Ali. When Ali entered a public bathroom, Patterson went, too. "If anything at all happened to Muhammad," he said, "I figured it would be my fault."

During fights, he always kept his hand clamped over the water bottle so no one could sabotage Ali. But the Bodyguard had to sit on the corner stool and watch helplessly when his man needed protection most, in the ring when the end was near. "Watching him get hit was like watching someone stick my mama with a knife," Patterson said. "Ali fights stopped being a party. I tried to tell him to quit...."

He drove the patrol car through the streets as he reminisced, head continually swiveling, eyes sweeping, ears listening for his number on the radio. The recruit he was training listened to the stories silently. Now and then a wino or a pimp called from the sidewalk, "Hey, Patty, how's Muhammad?"

"Traveling with Ali opened up the whole world for me," said the Bodyguard. "I'll admit it, I was afraid of flying before I got on that first airplane to meet him in Toronto. I never thought of going to other countries. Now I feel like there's nothing I can't do; my wife and I travel all the time.

"With him I saw that people all over are the same—trying to educate their kids and get enough to eat—just like us. Only most of them don't have as much as we do. That changed me, too. I used to worry about being a success, getting a promotion. Now that's not important. Seeing how somebody as powerful as Ali never used force to get things done, I learned from that. I'm not a police officer anymore, I'm a peace officer. I'd rather drive a drunk home or give somebody five dollars to solve an argument than stick them in jail. People need help, not jail."

Not long ago, he was in London with a tour group when a disheveled, unbathed man approached and asked for money. The others averted their eyes and edged away. "There's a sucker," some said when Patterson gave the beggar a bill and talked with him, but they didn't understand. He wasn't safeguarding a man anymore, he was safeguarding an idea.

"Whenever he saw someone old or sick or in trouble," said the Bodyguard, "Ali always wanted to help them. He'd say, 'Who knows? Some day I might be that way.' "