Dave Parker is a father figure to Black MLB legends

Dave Parker had prepped Eric Davis for this. Davis had earned this moment — ready to come through where his baseball father had failed.

Parker had just failed. In the top of the ninth inning, he’d struck out with the bases loaded, the score even at 5-5. He whiffed in Pittsburgh where he had starred for 11 seasons — the town where a kid from the South Cumminsville neighborhood in Cincinnati morphed into “The Cobra,” perhaps the most feared hitter of the 1970s.

No longer. It was 1986, and Parker was no longer a Pittsburgh Pirate, he was the right fielder for the Cincinnati Reds. Now he hoped that Davis, the Reds outfielder he helped mentor in baseball since the first day they met, could finish what he could not.

He saw that with that first pitch, Davis was ready. Ready to hit the ball into left-center field for the first grand slam of his career. When he rounded the bases, he did so as baseball’s next Black superstar — part of the generation raised by Dave Parker.

Parker’s biographer Dave Jordan has said you can’t write the story of 1970s baseball without The Cobra. What is less often stated is that you couldn’t tell the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s without him, either.

That’s because through these “kids” Parker would change the game forever. Again. In part because of him, three men realized their own greatness. They led teams to championships, earned spots in the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York (or will soon). They defined an era, just as he did his.

In a career that is worthy of Hall of Fame enshrinement, this remains the unmeasured, incalculable part of Parker’s career.

“He made it clear that ‘This was my son,’ ” Davis said. “And that was how I was to be treated. I don’t think I paid for a meal for two years. He would order limo rides if we went to dinner after the games. So, I was in heaven.”

Parker knew the stresses of coming up to the major leagues. He saw that Davis had little in the way of clothes, and bought him hundreds of dollars worth. He saw Davis had the talent to be up here. He knew should look the part.

“He made it easy for me,” Davis said. “And as easy as it was — it still wasn’t easy.”

Davis was fighting for his baseball self when the two first met in 1984. Skinny hitters with Davis’ speed were born to bunt, chop the ball low, resign themselves to bat leadoff. At least, that’s what some in the Reds believed.

But that wasn’t Davis. He had the quick wrists and bat speed to make him a force unseen since legendary hitter and outfielder Willie Mays. Maybe better. Having watched others stripped of their thunder, he knew he had to guard his own game, or otherwise risk losing it forever.

“Even in the minor leagues, I had problems with the coaches,” Davis says. “They wanted me to hit the ball on the ground and run and I said, ‘I’ve never played baseball that way.’

“And that’s where the conflict with me started to happen. Because it didn’t feel like that’s who I was, and I was going to fight like hell to maintain who I was.”

He finally had an ally when Parker showed up as a free agent. A big, boastful, broad-shouldered ally who had the hardware to back up his words. The 1978 National League MVP, he had two batting titles along with three Gold Gloves. He’d help lead the Pittsburgh Pirates, nicknamed “The Family,” to the 1979 World Series. They were going to listen.

“He [Parker] said, ‘S—. Why are y’all doing that to him?’ ” Davis said. “‘He’s hitting home runs. He’s stealing bases. He’s climbing walls. Let the motherf—er play.’ ”

By 1987, his play was unmatched. He was no longer Eric Davis. He was Eric the Red, Eric the Great. From June 8, 1986, to June 27, 1987, Davis had 46 home runs and 99 stolen bases. He’s the only player in MLB history to put up those numbers in a 162-game stretch.

But he would need Parker to guide him in this climb.

“He prepared me for anything and everything I could possibly face over the course of my career,” Davis said of Pops. “I was able to talk to him firsthand about the racism in the game.

“Dave told me, ‘This is the Midwest. This is how it goes. This is how you do it.’ If you party, party over there. Don’t do this. Don’t let them see you.’ He prepared me for the professional livelihood of the city of Cincinnati.”

After all, Cincinnati was Parker’s hometown. More importantly, he understood the weight Davis would soon feel.

“I was teaching him,” Parker said. “Eric was destined to be a star. He was destined to be chased by women. He looked good in his clothes. He had a little rap. He knew how to talk to a woman. He was destined to run into all the stuff that I did.”

“Stuff.” Sometimes being a parent means opening up things about your past, slicing through the image you hoped to present to your kids. But Pops didn’t care. He was always straight-up about drug use, specifically, cocaine, which he first tried in Venezuela during winter ball season in 1976 that eventually became a weekly habit until he kicked it in 1982.

“Do as I say, not as I’ve done.”  

That was the message. And it came with a warning — a physical threat. A real one. 

Davis took it in. Soon his peers — including his boyhood pal Darryl Strawberry — would struggle with addiction. But now just simple temptation meant facing the wrath of the baddest man in baseball.

Lasting in the game would prove hard enough.

He didn’t need it ending with a beatdown from Dave Parker.

“You always remember,” Pops said quietly. “They leave an impression on your life. You can’t wait to get close to them — to see what they do.”

It was a sunless day after Christmas and Parker, now 72 years old, was sitting in his Cincinnati home. He is speaking about Pirates power hitter Willie Stargell — Pops 1.0 — and Pirates pitcher Dock Ellis now. These were the men who took him in during those heady early days as he started to come into his own as the new man playing right field for the Pirates.

Stargell was still that great player by the time Parker came up to the majors in 1972. But he’d already started the transition into “Pops,” the clubhouse caretaker, the father figure of the Pirates Family.

Still, there were some things Pops couldn’t do. He couldn’t take him shopping for high-wasters and paisley shirts and “brims.” If Stargell helped solve your most practical matters, Ellis was there to baptize you in big league style.

Thanks to Ellis, Parker’s look matched his bold brand of baseball. Though 6-feet-5, because of that build — 230 pounds popping with muscle — most swore he was 3 inches taller. Parker still had the force and speed of Cincinnati’s most feared high school running back. His power — and ability to hit for average — was exceptional. A catcher blocking home plate risked, well everything. A runner taking an extra base did so at his peril.

“I just did stuff that was abnormal,” he said. “I liked to show off. I still like to show off.”

Parker was not quite that player when he came back to Cincinnati. His aching knees made sure of that. But as the first marquee free agent in team history, the Reds asked him to restore the franchise still sorting through the wreckage of the Big Red Machine that dominated the NL from 1970-79.

Still, there was something else. From the very start, Parker expressed interest in the young Reds coming up through the ranks. With Stargell two years into retirement, he assumed the responsibility. In this new setting, he could be Pops.

Like Stargell, this Pops had the sense to size up each one of his sons. Compared to Davis, who grew up in South Central Los Angeles, Reds shortstop Barry Larkin didn’t seem to need much from him. Larkin was a Cincinnati sports blue blood who went through private, all-male Archbishop Moeller High School. He’d gone off to Michigan on a football scholarship, before switching to baseball-only after his freshman year. He’d earned a spot on the star-studded 1984 Olympic team.

“Barry Larkin was a good kid,” Pops said. “A college kid. Good-looking kid. He didn’t look as good as me.”

Drafted in the first round, he barely spent any time in minor league ball. He came to the Reds with such polish that he looked to be the rightful, ready heir to his idol, shortstop Dave Concepción.

Still, there was work to be done.

“I tried to teach him how to be more every day,” Parker said. “He was steam-pressed with a crease in it.

“One of his problems was being too straight-laced. He was one of those guys that had to have it just right. You had to let him hang.”

(Asked about Pops’ assessment, Larkin said: “Oh, yeah, I was uptight. Super-uptight. I was a kid.”)

There was also a timidness to his game. Pops knew this wasn’t the time for this — not with another first-round pick looking to take his place. In 1987, some whispered that second base looked like a more suitable spot for Larkin. The thing he dreamed of, worked for, could be lost.

Pops needed to wake him up.

He’d do it by using fear. One cold night, Larkin met Davis and Parker at the batting cages beneath Riverfront Stadium after the two suggested that they get some work in.

But they weren’t there to practice. Davis and Parker gave Larkin an ultimatum. He needed to play with the boldness they believed he had in him. And he would pay a price if he didn’t do so soon.

“They told me they were going to beat me up if I didn’t start playing with a sense of urgency,” Larkin said. “I don’t know if they were serious about it, but I took it to heart.

“I came from college where it was all team-team-team,” he said. “Where it was all about fitting in. And they were telling me, ‘No. Don’t fit in. Take it.’ ”

The new Larkin debuted the next day. By season’s end, this son made clear to everyone that no one would move him from shortstop. Not until he retired as a Reds player in 2004.

This would be his team. For a good part of his tenure, he wore the captain’s C patch.

“I just saw a lot of things that Dave did that went into the memory bank,” Larkin said of Pops and Davis. “And eventually one day I became that player — because there was not that one player in the clubhouse. And from the experiences I had with dealing these guys, I was able to find my own way of dealing with people.”

Sometimes as a dad — even a baseball dad — your son will express his gratitude for what you’ve done for him. Larkin, that uptight kid, called to him from the stage in Cooperstown in 2012. He thanked Parker for scaring him at the darkened batting cages at Riverfront, for helping him to reach the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Pops needed Gary Sheffield to drink.

Pops hadn’t pulled out this bottle of whiskey on a whim. The 1990 Milwaukee Brewers, in the midst of a losing streak, needed something. What would end this, he decided, standing of front of the team, was for everyone to unite by taking a sip of his booze.

Sheffield, 21, didn’t touch the stuff and told Pops no. But he’d listened to him about everything since he’d come to the club. He’d found not only success but an inner calm that had eluded him after his quick rise to The Show.

And besides: “Who’s going to tell Dave Parker no?” (Sheffield claims Pops’ team-building trick worked and the team went on a brief winning streak — because, of course it did.)

Certainly not him. Parker had come from the Oakland A’s in part to work with Sheffield, who spent his early days in tumult. Just four years younger than his uncle, pitcher Dwight Gooden, he bristled about his move from shortstop to third base, claiming racial bias. He fought with ownership over a misdiagnosed injury. He struggled to hit. White veteran players, he said, didn’t protect him against pitchers. Sheffield was left to defend himself in this unforgiving new world.

When he heard that Parker signed as a free agent with the Brewers before the 1990 season, Sheffield found the player, the person who had gone missing since his major league debut.

“I felt alive again.” he said.

Pops had enough faith in Sheffield’s future in the major leagues to make sure he could handle everything that would come next. Pops wanted him to understand that he needed to do anything he could — anything — to maintain himself for a long career.

“He would make sure that I knew how to take care of my body by saying, ‘You’ve got to get your feet done,’ ” Sheffield said. “I never had my feet pedicured before, and I thought it was weird that somebody would do that.

“But I tried it. And, lo and behold, I didn’t have ingrown toenails. And my feet wasn’t hurting as bad. These are the little things that he was showing me that I wasn’t registering at the time. But over time, that’s what got me through 22 years because I was paying attention to the details.”

As the kid looked after his feet, Pops could deal with the other stuff. He acted as the buffer between Sheffield and the front office. He dealt with the press, telling them, “He’s a kid, I’ll handle it.” And he would.

Because of this, a calmness seemed to come over Sheffield. He could focus on his craft, and his craft alone.

“I’m fresh out of high school,” Sheffield said. “I don’t know about Major League Baseball. I don’t know about the media. I don’t know how to address people because I was an only child — so when it was thrust upon me, because of my talent, I was forced to do things that I was uncomfortable doing. But he taught me how.”

Still, it all would end badly. Parker’s trade to the California Angels during spring training in 1991 marked the last season of his career. Angered by the move, the fights between Sheffield and the Brewers front office resumed, forcing them to trade him to San Diego Padres before the 1992 season. (In his first campaign with the Padres, Sheffield came close to winning the Triple Crown.)

“I think it would have worked there had he stayed one more year,” Sheffield said of Milwaukee. “I was starting to find my identity as young player, starting to get comfortable in Major League Baseball.”

Whatever peace Sheffield felt was lost as soon as Pops left Milwaukee. He was alone again, overcome with despair.

“As I got older,” Sheffield said. “I started understanding these things. You can either get attached to a person till it hurts you when they leave, or say, ‘We’re gonna make the best of the time when you’re here.’ ”

The sons can no longer recognize the old Pops, who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 2012. The mass is gone. He’s unsteady. He’s had a few falls since Christmas and “freezes up” mid-sentence.

But he remains cocky, charismatic. He remains Dave Parker.

“Seeing this gigantic man crippled by something of this magnitude,” Davis said, “it hurts. But he’s also teaching me how to deal with adversity — just like when I was 21 years old.

“He’s still Pops,” he said. “And he’s still teaching you how to deal with whatever hand you were dealt with — you’ve got to f—ing play it.”

Reds fans have longed for Davis since his heady heights. And last summer, they believed they found his modern counterpart in 22-year-old Reds infielder Elly De La Cruz.

“I can see it,” Davis said of the comparison. “I would say the only difference between me and Elly is that he switch-hits. Everything else is probably spot-on. I started as a shortstop. I ended up moving to center field. If he stays at shortstop, he can be one of the greatest shortstops ever to play the game. But to me, Elly doesn’t have one thing that I had, and what I had was Dave Parker.”