Why is this man smiling?

It's just after 8 a.m. inside the Phillies' clubhouse on another spring morning in Clearwater, Fla., and the only voice you hear is that of Dontrelle Willis. He's calling across the room, smiling, carrying a bat in one hand while wearing a cutoff T-shirt. His body has filled out since he first graced all those magazine covers nearly a decade ago, but that charisma has never faded. He laughs. He jokes. He tells you how much he enjoys bunting drills. And when he returns after 30 minutes, he spreads his 6-4, 225-pound frame across a black leather chair by a corner locker designated by the placard that reads, "Willis 53." That placard, he says, is the best part of his job.

If you were expecting bitterness, you won't find it at his locker. Although he's a former All-Star who now resembles one in name only, Willis does not take for granted the idea of playing baseball to earn a paycheck. Even after an outing against the Astros that Willis describes as "horsebleep," he's still able to crack a smile. Yes, he's damn happy to be here, and he's not shy about explaining why. He looks around at the locker stalls of 57 other players - from Ryan Howard to Harold Garcia - and starts to tell stories.

See Juan Pierre, sitting in a stall catty-corner from Willis'? He's Willis' former Marlins teammate and godfather to Willis' three daughters.

Chase Utley, over in another corner? They played together for Team USA in the 2006 World Baseball Classic.

What about Jeremy Horst, a 26-year-old nonroster invitee who pitched in 12 games for the Reds last season? They were teammates at Triple A Louisville until Horst earned a promotion, and Willis lent Horst a suit that was so big, Horst needed to hold the pants by the knee in the Louisville airport.

Willis could go on, and happily would. The Phillies are the seventh Major League organization he's played for in the last 10 years, and he has stories involving someone in all 30 Major League clubhouses. In fact, it sometimes feels as if he has a story about everyone in those 30 clubhouses.

This is now all that's left of Dontrelle Willis' career - a scrapbook of memories, one team after another, and his trying to recapture the magic of a time when he pitched in a way that few around baseball could. Those aces on the other side of the Phillies' clubhouse - Roy Halladay and Cliff Lee and Cole Hamels? That was once Willis, now 30, a player so dominant that he appeared to be planting the seeds for a spot in Cooperstown. Instead, Willis finds himself on the other side of the clubhouse, and the other side of his career. While those other pitchers are the cornerstones of the starting rotation, Willis would shortly find himself out of a job. On Friday, the Phillies cut him from the team.

How he reached this point remains a mystery, a conundrum of time, injury and expectations that seemingly sapped his ability to throw past opposing hitters every fifth day.

But here's the part that Willis wants you to understand: it has never sapped his enthusiasm. In many ways, he remains the same guy fans fell for 10 summers ago. Even to the end, he would still take his cap and cock it to the side, like he did at 21. He would still gallop during practice, yapping and laughing and smiling. Fans might have forgotten about him. Baseball might have discarded him. But Willis has never stopped having fun.

Dontrelle Willis first caught the baseball world's attention on an 86-degree night in May 2003. No one knew what would begin the evening, that the summer would eventually become defined in part by the smiling, charismatic 21-year-old with the high leg kick and the aggressive clap of his glove after good pitches. In front of 10,272 fans, at a football stadium disguised as a baseball park in Miami Gardens, Fla., Willis struck out seven batters in six innings against the Colorado Rockies. He didn't earn the win, but he kept the scorecard after the game.

Five nights later in San Diego, Willis earned his first victory. By the end of May, he had notched three wins. By the end of June, he had eight. He allowed more than one earned run in just once in five June starts. "Before Linsanity, there was D-Train-mania," says Pierre, a 2003 Marlins teammate. In July, Willis was an All-Star. In August, his laughing mug graced the cover of ESPN: The Magazine with the headline: "The Joy of Summer." The team wanted him to appear at sponsored events. Other players around the league called his agent, Matt Sosnick, for autographs. At one point, Sosnick requested a ban of individual interviews because Willis had become exhausted. The Marlins managed an unexpected march to the World Series that fall, and Willis was named NL Rookie of the Year and became a national brand. "Sometimes in sports, regardless what team it happens to, it's a shot in the arm," Willis says. "It was the perfect storm, man. The people that know me know I try to downplay it. I can understand it from the outside looking in ...  When does that ever happen in sports?"

Two years later, Willis pitched even better. At 23, he finished second in the 2005 Cy Young voting after going 22-10 with a 2.63 ERA and National League-leading five shutouts. During the off-season, though, the Marlins traded high-priced talent to save money. They kept Willis, who was the face of the franchise - a burden that became difficult to shoulder.

In 2006, pitches that had once caught corners suddenly eluded the strike zone. The flyouts became home runs. That year, he hit more batters (19) than anyone else in baseball. He finished 12-12 with a 3.87 ERA. In 2007, he allowed 29 home runs in 34 starts. That December, when the Marlins went looking to purge salary again, they sent him to Detroit in a package with slugger Miguel Cabrera. The Tigers awarded Willis with a three-year, $29 million contract extension. It appeared to be a new beginning for Willis, a place where he could smile again, slap his glove and become a fan favorite. Instead, it signaled the beginning of something that is still trying to be reconciled.

Baseball requires answers. That's why there are box scores, esoteric statistics, talk radio, newspaper columns and postgame shows. It's not enough to see what happened. There needs to be an explanation. This is a reality that confronts and confounds Willis, who cannot provide a specific reason for why he was among the most dominant pitchers in baseball one day and could no longer throw strikes the next. He says he was merely trying too hard, so fixated on improving that he actually faltered. "I think often time in sports, everyone wants to find a reason," Willis says. "But we're all different."

It started in Detroit, where a knee injury and control issues exacerbated problems that began in Florida. He was limited to eight games in 2008. By spring 2009, the Tigers had diagnosed him with anxiety disorder. Willis contends that he has never taken any medication and that his problems were linked to just trying too hard - and thinking too much - about being successful. "I fight as hard as I can," Willis says, "but sometimes the harder you work, the worse it gets." Willis tried to fix himself in the minor leagues, but any repairs were cosmetic.

The Tigers eventually traded him to Arizona in 2010. He was released after a month. He tried to catch on with San Francisco, but that didn't last, either. He spent last season with Cincinnati, where he started in Triple A before earning a spot on the Reds, which Willis insists was the proudest moment of his career. "When you struggle, there are only two things that can happen: You can give up or you can fight," Willis says. "I was able to get back to the big leagues."

Willis isn't the first star to inexplicably lose control on the mound. Steve Blass became famous in the early 1970s, when, after eight seasons as a solid starter a 1972 All-Star Game appearance with the Pirates, he could no longer throw the ball over the plate. In 1973, Blass hit the most batters (12) in baseball (like Willis did in 2006). In 1973 and '74, he had more walks than strikeouts (like Willis did from 2008-2010). By 1975, Blass was out of baseball. Rick Ankiel, who was a promising young lefthander with the St. Louis Cardinals in the late '90s, suffered a meltdown on the mound in Game 1 of the 2000 National League Division Series when he had four walks and five wild pitches in 2 innings. Ankiel eventually became an outfielder because he could no longer pitch.

Coaches and management at every stop tried to help Willis. The Tigers tried to aid him psychologically. The Reds tinkered with his delivery. Sosnick received hundreds of letters and emails from coaches and former pitchers, all thinking they had the answers. "Everybody's looking for something wrong," Reds manager Dusty Baker told the New York Times last year, "but sometimes you're just not doing what you're capable of doing." Willis said the mechanical changes made by Reds pitching coach Bryan Price were significant, and they at least appeared to help. Willis excelled in Triple A with the Reds, and was particularly adept against lefties. Although he was no longer dominant, his problems at least appeared rectifiable.

His comeback revealed that Willis' problems might not be entirely physical or entirely mental, but rather somewhere in between. Sosnick says Willis is at his best when he's just left alone - when he can figure out why the problems are happening, when he's not overburdened with explanations and instructions.

By the time he arrived in Clearwater, Willis was acutely aware of what he'd become - neither the star who flashed so suddenly nor the flameout who appeared so broken. Rather, he was just another pitcher who was trying to make it. That's why the person you'd expect to be bitter about what happened is the one who's smiling. Willis doesn't shy away from anything that has occurred; he's candid about his struggles in recent seasons. But what really bothers him is when others expect him to sulk or complain or tell you what he once was. "If you want to see me upset, that gets me upset," Willis says. "It's hard to do what we do. These are the best players in the world. And not everything is going to go according to plan. And if it did, what fun would that be?"

Those around baseball continue to root for him. Scott Olsen, who played with Willis for the Marlins, has called him one of the best teammates he's ever encountered. Pierre loves him. Placido Polanco praises him. Yankees manager Joe Girardi, who managed Willis for a year in Florida, flashes a big smile when asked about him. This isn't because Willis is part of the fraternity, but because of how much being a part of the fraternity means to Willis. "I never grew up in a house with no empty rhetoric or coffeehouse B.S. or anything like that," he says, choosing to shift the blame for his struggles. "I was just playing bad."

During the off-season, Phillies general manager Ruben Amaro Jr. met with Willis at his home in Arizona. Amaro expressed interest in bringing Willis in as a lefthanded specialist, a different role for him but one that could allow him to reinvent himself. There were eight teams that called and four that made offers, including a few that were better than the one-year, $850,0000 deal with the Phillies, which wasn't fully guaranteed unless Willis earned an opening-day roster spot.

It became clear early on that Willis might not make it. He had trouble adjusting to the bullpen, and in his first appearance in a game against the Yankees, catcher Erik Kratz had to visit the mound to talk about Willis' tempo. Four days later, Willis suffered from left-arm fatigue, which affected his 33-pitch outing. It didn't help that the Phillies also had younger, cheaper lefthanded options, such as Jake Diekman and Joe Savery, who can shuffle between the major and minor leagues. "I don't see any reason to have a second lefty if he's not better than the righty before him," Dubee said a few weeks ago, all but signaling Willis' fate. "If he can't get anybody out, what kind of look is that?"

Willis had no objection to this, although one of his defining characteristics has been a willingness to continue when there appears to be no reason to keep trying. "What separates him from other guys is that when he's down, he's incredibly resilient," Sosnick says. "He's able to hit the reset button himself emotionally."

Dontrelle Willis doesn't collect mementos. He didn't frame the ESPN: The Magazine cover that the Marlins distributed to fans while Willis captured baseball's attention as a rookie in 2003, or the Sports Illustrated cover that featured him standing in thigh-high water in 2007. His rookie card is of no interest to him. He keeps framed uniforms of his friends throughout the league at his home, but no tributes of his personal exploits. "I have a [World Series] title; I have a Warren Spahn award. I've been sent down, I've been sent up," Willis says. "In the end, I like to see people happy. I like to be happy."

What he collects are experiences - memories and encounters from more than a decade doing what he enjoys with people he appreciates. He smiles during each story, as if his mind takes him back to that precise moment.

Pierre still talks about that smile. When he discusses his close friend, the smile is one of the first things that comes to mind. The reason Willis is so well-liked in baseball has little to do with his appearing in two All-Star games by the time he was 23, or his struggles and his quest to revive a career at age 30. It's because Willis still smiles, still has fun when others might be bitter or nostalgic or just plain sick of failure, of being a shadow of what he once was. "Let's be real here," Willis, who has earned more than $40 million in his career. "I play Major League baseball. I got a job. It's a little bit different demographic. 'Cause I have friends who work in the real world who've lost their job. I got to check myself. I'm blessed to play baseball. It's not like I'm losing my job at a factory or a corporate job. It's not the same. I don't even complain to them about stuff like that. My friends and family take [my struggles] harder than I do."

At 10:13 a.m. Friday, Willis lost that job. By 10:20, he had left the team's facility. All that remained by his locker were three bats and some Phillies clothing. A large cardboard box sat in front of the stall, still designated by "Willis 53." A clubhouse attendant hadn't yet taken it down.

Willis knew this could happen. Maybe even knew it probably would happen. But he remained jovial throughout the spring. He knows he is not who he used to be, but this does not bother him. When the 30-year-old Willis contemplates what he would tell the 21-year-old Willis if given the chance, he says, "Nothing." He needed to experience what he did to build his perspective - the realization that there's more to baseball than retiring the side and there's more to living than playing baseball. That didn't stop Willis from dispensing advice to rookies in the clubhouse. And when he did, it seemed as if the 30-year-old Dontrelle Willis was really talking with the 21-year-old Dontrelle Willis, after all. "Your career goes like that," Willis says, snapping his fingers. "Enjoy every day."

Contact Zach Berman at bermanz@phillynews. com or follow him on Twitter @ZBerm.