Royal Rebel

By then, his personal life was in a slump. According to court documents, Wilson fathered an illegitimate daughter who was born February 5, 1985. Later that year, he and his wife separated. When they divorced on February 26, 1987, he was ordered to pay $3,000 a month in child support for their two kids. Two years later, Wilson lost a paternity suit in Jackson County court and was ordered to pay $1,000 a month in child support for his out-of-wedlock daughter. He had remarried in 1988.

Wilson opened a burger joint in New Jersey, but it folded in the early '90s. He invested thousands to become chairman of a wireless-telephone start-up called Nutech Communications, but that company went belly-up in 1998, according to court documents. In 2000, he filed for bankruptcy. He escaped to his wife's hometown of Toronto in 2002, after his baseball mementos were auctioned by the bankruptcy court. Bats signed by White and Bo Jackson earned a few hundred dollars. His World Series ring went for $16,250.

In January 2004, Helen Mohr, who owns a public-relations company called Type A Event, suggested that Wilson attend the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum's Legacy Awards for former African-American ballplayers. She had a plan for him. Mohr pointed at the crowd, standing in the 2-foot-deep snow in front of the Gem Theater, waiting for autographs. "This is a gold mine for you," she told him.

Wilson had started the Willie Wilson Baseball Foundation to run a charity camp and clinics for kids in New Jersey. The goal was to donate proceeds from each camp to the local sports associations that hosted each event. Mohr convinced Wilson to focus on Kansas City.

Shanice Wilson, his daughter from his first marriage, says her dad embraced the chance to shed his old labels: grump player, ex-con, failed businessman. Shanice, who lives in Kansas City, says her father hoped for a new role as a coach. "For a long time, he felt underappreciated and disrespected," she says. "He's sensitive, he's matured, and I think he has peace of mind now that he's comfortable with what he's doing."

Wilson summarizes his partnership with Mohr: "If someone is using you to make money and you are using them to make money and both of you know you are getting used, it should be a pretty good marriage," he says.

His biggest issue remains sticking to his talking points.

Wilson has an unconventional view of sportsmanship. In mid-April, at a Willie Wilson Baseball Foundation clinic supporting the Raytown Sports Association, he basically tells kids to forget the golden rule and look for the gold. You can earn things, he says, by keeping a positive attitude.

At the beginning of his career, he mistreated umpires. "I never said two words to umpires," Wilson tells a huddle of kids. "I just went off on them. If there was a close play at the plate, it didn't matter. I was usually called out." Then an umpire told him that if he simply said hello to the other umpires, word would get around that Wilson was OK. He pauses, looking around at the group of 7- to 14-year-olds. "I said hello to everybody, and the next year, I won a batting championship."

Wilson admits that he's not the perfect role model. "When I played, if I was happy, you knew it. If I was sad, you knew it. If I was angry, you knew it," he says. "People probably saw all of me, and it reminded them of themselves."

For the Raytown clinic, Wilson has called in some favors and recruited an all-star roster of former friends and teammates: Dennis Leonard, Greg Pryor, Ed Hearn, Bobby Dernier, Otis, Mayberry and White. Otis has flown in from Las Vegas. A hundred kids have paid $50 each for two days of instruction. Mohr says the weekend will net $4,000 for the Raytown Sports Association to put toward new ball fields. Mohr won't disclose what Wilson or the former players were paid, but she says additional sponsorships from H&R Block and YRC Worldwide helped fund their salaries.

His teammates wear their old uniforms, which stretch and bow across their middle-aged frames. When Mayberry tells Wilson that his clothes look too new, Wilson admits that they are, courtesy of the Royals. At the end of his week evaluating Royals prospects at spring training, Wilson jokes, he left the locker room dressed in multiple layers of clothing to sneak out as much logo apparel as he could.

Throughout the clinic, Wilson coaches youngsters with a tough-love philosophy. When a girl lobs a light toss to him, he throws the ball back to her. "What do you think?" he asks. "Are you scared to throw it?"

When a kid with thick glasses swings his bat poorly, Wilson asks sharply, "Who taught you how to swing like that? No offense, but who taught you how to swing like that? Did you teach yourself?"

Each time a kid does well, he shouts short praises, "Hello!" or "Lordy! Lordy!"

As kids rotate through batting, pitching and throwing stations, Wilson calls for repeated breaks, mostly for his older teammates. When no one is looking, he sneaks out to his Jeep to smoke a Salem. By the end of the two-day camp, the girl with the weak toss is throwing bullets, and the boy with the sloppy swing is knocking shots into outfield gaps.