Royal Rebel

Much of that comes from his resolution to stop trying to justify his past actions. Wilson says he rocketed to superstardom in the era just before pro athletes were coached on how to handle the press and groupies. He never realized the extent to which his daily moves would be scrutinized.

When talk turns to past transgressions, he'll no longer discuss specifics. Ask him about the cocaine scandal, and he will tell you, "All I did was call for somebody else. How would you like to go to jail for just talking about something?" Ask him about his illegitimate daughter, and he admits that he is estranged from her, but not by choice. "It was all about money. I had a daughter out of wedlock. There are about 50 million other kids that happened out of wedlock, but you don't see nobody talking about them."

If he's going to tell all, he says, he'll do it in a book that comes with a payday. "I'm not going to just give it to the public. My life is not free anymore."

As the sun sets, Wilson steps outside to smoke a cigarette. He looks toward the tree line, in the direction of his old home, which is just a few miles east. It was repossessed after he filed for bankruptcy. He puffs on a Salem and scrutinizes the golf course rolling out in front of him, planning where he might place his strokes.

He exhales, knowing he'll never move back to Kansas City.

"If I'm still here, I can't relax," he says later. "It's like, quit bugging me, man. You don't want to be that way. I want to give people a good impression. I want to give people the good Willie, the one that is enjoying his job and makes everything better."

On May 17, 2007, Wilson and Mohr arrive at Community America Ballpark in Kansas City, Kansas, for a season-opening event with the new team that he seems to have adopted since retirement: T-Bones.

Wilson began shilling for the team a year ago when his foundation organized the first Willie Wilson T-Bones Classic celebrity game, featuring Brett and Otis. Today, he wears a red T-Bones-logo polo shirt. He will throw out the first pitch. He'll also plug his second-annual T-Bones charity game, July 14.

Mohr has invited a cast of potential sponsors of future events to see her client in action. For the pitch, she has arranged a built-in crowd pleaser: Wilson will form a tag team with 9-year-old Weston Funk, a cancer survivor from Children's Miracle Network, which will get a share of ticket revenue from the all-star game.

He seems happy to be here, in part because independent league baseball is known for drawing fans who love the game, not scrutinizing stars. "I'm not dogging the Royals," he says. "This gives me an opportunity that the Royals haven't."

On the field, Wilson's shoulders relax, and he smiles broadly. He says he's always been at ease on the field. It was the other part of life that seemed so complicated. Now the two are blurring. Fans reach through the netting of the backstop behind home plate, shoving ticket stubs and programs through for him to sign. He scrawls his autograph in blue ink across the back right shoulder of Weston's T-shirt.

"Look, he's my buddy," Wilson says. He tousles the kid's bushy hair.

Weston throws a baseball up and down, oblivious. He looks too small to be able to get it across home plate from the pitcher's mound. One of the T-Bones' promoters suggests that Wilson throw the pitch instead.

Wilson settles this quickly. "I don't want to throw it. He's throwing it," he says. As Weston's parents and the T-Bones' event staff listen in, Wilson offers the kid advice: "Don't you worry, son. You just have fun. Even grown-ups throw them bad, too."

Wilson shows Weston how to grip the seams of the ball so that it won't slip out of his hands. He tells the boy to throw hard — all out. He hopes the ball will get there, but regardless, he adds an encore maneuver sure to court the fans.

"After you throw it, I want you to give me some skin," Wilson says.

For the first time in months, Wilson gets a proper introduction. The announcer mentions Wilson's upcoming game and the Children's Miracle Network and then booms, "And now, here to throw out the first pitch ...Weston Funk and Willie Wilson!"

Weston grips the ball with his fingers across the seams, winds up and hurls. The ball moves fast, skipping once across the dirt and landing with a loud smack in the catcher's glove.

The crowd erupts. Walking off the field, Weston remembers the second part of his act. He hops up to slap Wilson high-five. The crowd again signals its loud approval.

Wilson heads to the top of the stands to address reporters. Next week, Mohr will tell him that the Children's Miracle Network has given its blessing to send the ex-player to another benefit, a Wal-Mart shopping spree for a different cancer survivor. Every such event helps Wilson rebuild his image and promote the upcoming game.

An inning later, when he thinks no one is still looking, Wilson finds Weston's family in the lower deck and asks the boy if he can sign the ball.

He inscribes his usual "#6 Willie Wilson." Beneath that, he adds something new. One word, underlined twice: "Thanks."