PITTSBURGH — A pickup truck transporting Dave Parker should’ve stopped on Main Street in downtown Cooperstown, N.Y., next month. As he entered the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, fans lining both sides of the street should’ve had the opportunity to applaud “The Cobra.”

That night, family and friends from Pittsburgh, Cincinnati and a handful of other MLB stops should’ve sipped drinks and dined in Parker’s honor. And the next day, in the middle of a grassy field, he should’ve officially joined the other greats in the game.

Instead, Parker will only attend in spirit — and it stinks.

Parker, who died Saturday after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease at the age of 74, should’ve been there to experience it all, to enter the hall after a way-too-long delay, one that I’ve never understood and never will.

The iconic outfielder was arguably the best player in baseball for much of the 1970s. From 1975-79, Parker hit .321 (second among qualified hitters), slugging .532 (third), posting a .909 OPS (also third) and led the majors with 72 outfield assists.

Parker won the 1978 NL MVP, two World Series championships, a pair of batting titles and was an All-Star seven times throughout a 19-year career, the athleticism and power every bit as evident as Parker’s unmistakable confidence.

The Cobra wasn’t just great. He was on par with many others who were inducted into the Hall of Fame without question and retired as one of just five players with at least 500 doubles, 300 home runs, 150 steals and 2,700 hits.

Think about that last stat line for a second.

“It’s something that I think I’ve earned," Parker said in September 2022 of his Cooperstown bid, which finally came true in December 2024.

"I was a good player. I played with a passion unlike most who ever played. Some people have said that they see me as one of the best players ever. I’m still hoping that I can make the Hall.”

I never saw Parker play for the Pirates, though I do remember the end of his career that primarily included stints with the Reds, Athletics, Brewers and Angels. (He technically played 13 games for the Blue Jays, too.)

What I remember more than Parker playing until he was 40, however, was how my dad would react when he talked to me about Parker, describing his unusual combination of size and speed, that ability to hit for power and average (.290 career hitter), Parker's defensive prowess (specifically the 1979 All-Star Game) and just how darn dominant the Cincinnati native was during his prime.

It was all of that, as well as Parker’s legendary confidence — which manifested in comments like his legendary boys boppin' quote, what happens when the leaves turn brown (he'll be wearing the batting crown) and what would've been asked of Pittsburgh River Rescue had those Pirates teams of the 1970s played at PNC Park.

“We would’ve capsized some boats,” Parker said in July 2019. “It’s a great hitter's park. We would have loved playing here.”

There was plenty more to Parker’s story, too. How he became ensnarled in the Pittsburgh Drug Trials of the 1980s; how his five-year, $5 million contract in January 1979 didn’t sit well with some fans; and how Parker was forced to endure sickening, racist behavior from fans.

It's a darker underside, but it also showed Parker's fight, the same thing that carried him through his battle with Parkinson's that started in 2013.

Parker was edgy. Prickly to some, too. But he was a Hall of Fame player, a leader and one of the best athletes our sports-rich city has ever seen.

Said Parker's former Reds teammate Barry Larkin: "Everything about him was impressive."

Parker’s exclusion from Cooperstown has bothered me from a young age. My dad, too. It was so obvious to so many, yet Parker remained on the outside looking in, a man clearly in declining health denied an honor he had earned.

When I attended a premier for the MLB Network documentary “The Cobra At Twilight,” I remember how confident Parker felt about being added to the Modern Baseball Era ballot at that time.

“I’m the best damn player they had in my era,” Parker said. “I done did it all. It’s been 20-some odd years. We’ll wait and see what happens. I feel good about this year’s Hall of Fame.”

Parker, of course, came up short, which became part of his legacy as much as anything else. Several heartbreaks led to Parker in his later years saying he stopped caring whether he'd ever make it.

But the Hall of Fame chase should not define him.

When I think of Parker, I think of someone who was an incredibly worthy successor to Roberto Clemente in right field, a player whose bravado plays in any era, a tough guy who thrived on emotion (Google the story about him wearing a goalie’s mask) and a man who undoubtedly belongs in our pantheon of incredible athletes.

“He was feared,” added Rennie Stennett back in July 2019. “We wouldn’t have won as much as we did without Dave. He’s one of the best players I’ve seen.”

“He should be in,” John Candelaria added last May. “I don’t understand why he’s not. … Just a hell of a ball player.”

The confusing, elongated process of reaching the Hall of Fame robbed Parker of the moment that he deserved to experience next month, that coronation or validation — though Parker and his swagger needed no such thing.

It will, unfortunately, be attached to him forever, although I’m choosing to look at this another way.

When I think about my interactions with Parker over the years, I feel honored to have gotten to know him a little, to talk to his wife, Kellye, and hear how hard he fought to keep going.

And that's just one small slice. For people like my dad, Parker defined an era of Pirates baseball. His production speaks for itself, and Parker spoke for the group — in ways that only he could.

I was lucky to learn. You were luckier to have seen.

It’s yet another reason of how absurdly blessed we’ve been in this city, with the storied histories that our big three professional teams possess. And when I consider the best players the Pirates, Steelers and Penguins have seen, Parker long ago became a part of our Hall of Fame.

I just wish Parker could’ve had his long-overdue moment in the sun while being inducted into the real one.

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