Indelible Mark

The shirts lie folded under a counter at the stadium souvenir shop, collecting dust, reeking of dishonesty.

The words, “World Series Champions” are on the front.

The lie fills the back.

That’s where the Angel roster is listed, a player-by-player tribute that is missing a player.

Brendan Donnelly isn’t there.

He was there last October, recording one of the Angels’ four World Series victories. He was there, pitching 7 1/3 scoreless innings in the Series. He was there with a 2.17 earned-run average during the regular season.

But as far as those shirts are concerned, he never existed.

Because as far as the players’ union is concerned, today’s sterling reliever is still nothing more than a 1995 scab.

Out of baseball and working as a bar bouncer, Donnelly joined the Cincinnati Reds’ replacement squad in the spring of that season on a promise that he would be given a full-time job, once the strike ended.

It was a promise kept, but a price paid by Donnelly. He has since been barred from joining the union, thus is not eligible to share in any licensing profits.

That means neither his name nor his image can appear on any union-approved product, from baseball cards to autographed bats to

Said teammate Ben Weber: “It’s complete bull.”

Said team union rep Scott Schoeneweis: “It’s a little silly.”

A crooked little story.

With another Angelic ending.

When the shirts arrived and they realized the awkwardness of the situation, the Angels reacted in a manner typical of their championship culture.

They gave Donnelly the shirts off their backs.

In a move that was engineered by club Vice President Tim Mead and approved by Schoeneweis, the Angels have paid for the production of two dozen similar shirts -- with full rosters that include Donnelly’s name.

They are only for his private use. They cannot be sold. As if Donnelly cares.

Said Schoeneweis: “The guy is one of us, and he deserves something that says that.”

Said Mead: “We just wanted his family to have the memories.”

Oh, he’s got them, all right.

“Can you imagine another team doing something like this?” Donnelly said the other morning, shaking his head in lingering disbelief, not a scab in sight.

*

He hates to talk about it. His blue eyes turn cold and his hand flies up.

“That’s in the past; I’d like to leave it in the past,” says Brendan Donnelly about the most damaging, decisive month of his life.

But his decision to resurrect his baseball career eight years ago through the last-gasp hole in a picket line, it’s with him every day.

Earlier this week at Tempe Diablo Stadium, a fan approached him with a championship bat officially autographed by every Angel but, of course, him.

The autographs were in black. The fan wanted Donnelly to sign it in red.

“Why, because I was a scab?” Donnelly joked.

Looking back, he says he wasn’t a scab, but a survivor.

He was 23 years old, out of pro baseball, working in bars, posing as a pizza delivery man to serve subpoenas for private investigators.

“I mean, I was out there playing softball,” he remembers. “The Reds called, said if I joined as a replacement player, I could have a job in low Class-A ball. If I wanted to ever play again, this was my only chance.”

He crossed the picket line, but he never cost the players money. He never played in anything other than a fake spring game during a fake spring training that was never going to lead to a regular season because at least one owner vowed he would never play with replacements.

The strike was settled at the end of the fake spring, he was sent to Class-A Charleston, and thus began a climb that landed him in Anaheim last season.

Most of the Angels didn’t know he had been a replacement player. There were only about two dozen remaining in the major leagues. The union gave him insurance and pension benefits, denying him only the annual licensing money.

“If I didn’t do what I did, I wouldn’t be here now,” he says. “If that was the price I had to pay, then fine.”

But then, in the middle of last summer, with baseball involved in new strike talks, the price rose when word leaked that a reporter was writing a story about Donnelly’s replacement days.

Donnelly called a team meeting to explain his past.

“I wanted them to hear it from me first,” Donnelly says. “I wanted a chance to explain myself.”

Witnesses said that after his five-minute talk, there was an awkward silence before former union rep Troy Percival rose to speak.

According to Weber, Percival gave a speech that helped set the tone for a season.

“Who cares about any of this? It’s done,” Percival reportedly said. “He’s our teammate now. He’s one of us. I support him.”

And that was that. Unlike other replacement players who are still sometimes shunned, Donnelly never again felt a moment of discomfort.

“When he crossed the line, he wasn’t a guy on the verge of the big leagues taking advantage of things, he wasn’t even in baseball,” Percival said this week. “Ninety-nine percent of the people who crossed that line should never be allowed back into the union. But some cases are different.”

Not that union officials will ever listen. Donnelly’s applications for reinstatement have been consistently denied.

“It’s a policy the players instituted following the work stoppage in 1995,” said Greg Bouris, union spokesman. “It’s something they have reviewed, but it’s still in place.”

The reason is obvious.

“They have to set precedent to give people something to think about before crossing the line next time,” said Schoeneweis. “I understand their stance. But also I hope Brendan knows how we feel about him as a teammate.”

If he didn’t before, he knows now.

His shirts should arrive any day now, just as he is realizing their true meaning.

“Seeing how your teammates and organization feel about you, I realize, that’s the big thing,” he says, smiling. “Hey, it’s just a shirt.”

*

Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com.