Royal Rebel

Former Royal Willie Wilson lingers on the sidewalk near Gate B at Kauffman Stadium.

It's April 28, just minutes to game time on a chilly afternoon, and thousands of fans stream through the turnstiles to watch the Royals take on the Minnesota Twins. Wilson stands an easy throw from the bronze statue of his former teammate George Brett. He watches fathers lead their sons to the foot of that Royals icon. They move on without recognizing the ex-player.

Of course, Wilson isn't in uniform. He's in dress pants, pointed shoes and a powder-blue polo shirt. And the 51-year-old Wilson hasn't been inside the stadium in seven years, since his induction into the team's Hall of Fame in 2000.

Wilson squints upward at the oversized banners that ring the ballpark. Each is adorned with the image of a member of the Royals team Hall of Fame. Above the front-office entrance, near Arrowhead, are the faces of Brett, John Mayberry and Frank White. The blown-up version of Willie Wilson hangs away from them on the other side of the stadium, near the main parking lot and a tree that buffers highway noise.

He has always been an outcast. But for the first time since his playing days, the Royals have asked Wilson to come back. During a week of spring training, he agreed to coach recruits and hang around the clubhouse. Today he's here for the culmination of Royals Fantasy Camp, a fundraiser in which he and other '80s legends coached a weeklong recreational camp for middle-aged dreamers willing to shell out $3,500. Before the game begins, the fantasy-camp players will be introduced at home plate alongside their Royals heroes.

Wilson meets the fantasy-camp players near the Brett statue. He slaps them on the back and signs their wives' ticket stubs. He slices the air with a practice golf swing, making it clear that his mind is not on baseball. "Hey, do we get a free meal out of this?" he asks, only half-joking. He sticks his stomach out. Other than a small gut and the gray whiskers that dot his shaved head and his face, he looks timeless. "I'm three months' pregnant!" he says, cackling.

The crew descends a spiraling concourse ramp into the bowels of the stadium. Near the Royals clubhouse, Wilson passes shortstop Tony Peña Jr. They don't recognize each other. Wilson spots his favorite player, Mike Sweeney.

"It's time to get it going," Sweeney shouts, after they hug.

"I see you working it," Wilson counters.

He watches Sweeney trot onto the field to stretch. A Royals public-relations woman finally leads Wilson through the visiting team's dugout. She arranges the camp players in front, former superstars behind them. The flack shouts an order for everyone to keep off the lush grass. Wilson can't help himself. He shuffles along the fringe.

The loudspeaker booms a short introduction: "Ladies and gentlemen, today we'd like to welcome the Royals Fantasy Camp to the K!" A cameraman pans the group, broadcasting their images to the JumboTron looming above center field. Wilson raises his arms to wave. But his name is never announced. The camera passes by quickly, as though avoiding him.

Perhaps that's because Willie Wilson embodies the best and worst of Royals history, a legacy the team has been promoting all year on billboards that sell "True. Blue. Tradition." Wilson's speed made him one of the most dangerous hitters, fielders and base stealers in baseball, talents that helped the Royals clinch the World Series in 1985. But, as the team's leadoff man, he often criticized the batting order. And no matter how fast he was, he couldn't outrun the first and perhaps biggest recreational-drug scandal to rock major league baseball. In his personal life, the strikeouts have included a divorce, a bankruptcy that caused him to flee the city in embarrassment, and bitter court battles over child support for an illegitimate child.

His appearances at Royals events have become part of rebuilding the brand Wilson likes to call "the Good Willie." Though he still lives in Toronto, the Royals' most notorious player has returned to work in Kansas City, complete with a media handler and a new nonprofit called the Willie Wilson Baseball Foundation.

For today, though, Wilson seems comfortable with his low profile. "It's all right. Not too many people recognized me, so that's good," he says.

It's just the beginning of his comeback, and so far, he's not sure whether the fans who do recognize him will cheer or boo.

In June 1974, rookie Willie Wilson seethed as he exited the showers in the Royals clubhouse. None of his teammates were taking him seriously.

Wilson had arrived at the stadium earlier that day with an entourage that consisted of his mother, his high school baseball coach and a lawyer. After signing his contract, he'd been invited to take batting practice with the team. Wearing a pristine white jersey and new uniform pants with blue piping, Wilson jumped into the batter's box as John Mayberry and Amos Otis watched nearby.

Wilson's high school field had no fences. There, he would just hit the ball as far as he could and then run the bases. He hadn't yet learned that, in the big leagues, where you hit the ball is more important than how far it goes. For his first Royals batting practice, Wilson knocked shots hard into far right field.