The Cobra Is Dead

Dave Parker—“The Cobra”—wasn’t just a baseball player. He was a movement in motion. One of the most electrifying and intimidating outfielders the game has ever seen, Parker passed away Saturday at the age of 74, following a long, brave fight with Parkinson’s disease.

And while his death is deeply sad, there’s no ignoring the sheer impact he left behind.

Let’s talk greatness. The man was the 1978 National League MVP, a seven-time All-Star, and a two-time World Series champion—first with the Pirates in 1979 and then with the A’s a decade later in 1989. He won back-to-back NL batting titles, had three Gold Gloves, three Silver Sluggers, and was the MVP of the ’79 All-Star Game. Oh, and he also won the very first MLB Home Run Derby in 1985. Just for fun.

He finished his career with 2,712 hits, 339 home runs, and 1,493 RBIs. He batted .290 over 19 seasons, from 1973 to 1991. Those aren’t just Hall of Fame numbers—those are the stats of a cornerstone. A franchise player. A guy pitchers feared and teammates admired.

And yet, Dave Parker’s legacy isn’t just about numbers. It’s about presence. Parker was cool. Parker was powerful. Parker was the kind of player who looked like he could bench press the dugout and still outrun your center fielder. He had a cannon for an arm, a swing that cracked like thunder, and a confidence that didn’t ask for your permission.

He was the heart and soul of the 1979 “We Are Family” Pirates. And in Oakland, he became a mentor to young sluggers like Mark McGwire and José Canseco. His influence went beyond what showed up in the box score.

But we can’t talk about Parker without acknowledging the darker chapters. In 1985, he was named in the Pittsburgh drug trials—a sweeping scandal that pulled back the curtain on widespread cocaine use in Major League Baseball. Parker, along with several other players, admitted to drug use and was among those initially suspended. The suspensions were ultimately lifted in exchange for community service, drug testing, and fines. It was a black mark—but one that speaks to a larger moment in baseball’s history, not just an individual failing.

And here’s the thing: people make mistakes. Athletes are human. Parker owned his missteps and kept moving forward. That, too, is part of the story. Like Pete Rose, Parker showed us that greatness can be complicated—and that flawed doesn’t mean forgotten.

Personally, I’ll always remember Dave Parker as a Pirate, because that’s where he roared the loudest. But he meant something everywhere he went. He played with passion. He played with fire. And when he was at his best, no one—and I mean no one—played the game harder.

Rest in peace, Cobra. The game was better because you played it.