In the late 1980s, a few months apart, I had occasion to cover book signings by two of the East Bay’s all-time greatest sports stars at a small bookstore in San Leandro. The first one was for Catfish Hunter, the legendary A’s pitcher who had just been inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. The other was for Raiders quarterback Ken Stabler, who wasn’t being touted for any hall other than ones where beer was served or pool was played.

The Catfish signing drew a nice crowd, maybe a couple of hundred people.

And then, a few months later, there was the Stabler event. It was more akin to the Feeding of the 5,000. Or Woodstock. Or more appropriately, based on the clientele, the Sturgis motorcycle summit.

The bookstore was filled beyond capacity long before the event started. The supply of books was exhausted quickly. It was loud, raucous, very close to out of control. The line to have a moment with this man Stabler went out the door, around the corner and down two city blocks. And for more than three hours, the fans kept coming, and coming, and coming.

With no books left to buy or sign, Stabler agreed to autograph whatever his legions brought to the table. Crude signs and photos from their personal Snake altar. Safeway shopping bags. Blank post-it notes. All manner of clothing, including women’s underwear. Some folks, with nothing to sign, just had Stabler sign the backs of their hands, or in the case of at least a few women, the area just above their halter tops.

At the end of it all, Stabler looked as if he couldn’t wait to find the nearest watering hole. He granted me a brief interview. I remember none of it. But I have never forgotten that scene, the reverence and joy people expressed, and how the bookstore owners were as astounded as I as to what they’d just witnessed.

Time has dimmed the glory of “The Snake” and his deeds. The stories have been passed down to a new generation of Raiders fans, but there are fewer personal accounts of who he was and what he meant to the East Bay’s inner-city, blue-collar culture both on and off the field. In the 1970s, when Oakland was the center of the professional sports universe, he was the definitive hero. More than that, he was the region’s definitive folk hero, and there’s a huge difference.

Stabler dwarfed legitimate icons such as Catfish and Reggie Jackson and Rick Barry. And he was by far the most popular Raider, too, easily outpacing so many Raiders who are now in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Fred Biletnikoff. Art Shell. Gene Upshaw. George Blanda. Dave Casper. Ted Hendricks. John Madden. And yes, even the boss, Al Davis.

Now, at long last and so long overdue, Kenny Stabler is in the Hall, too. Somebody put a quarter in the jukebox and punch up a Johnny Paycheck song.

Yes, it’s bittersweet that Stabler’s legacy has once again been revived and celebrated in the wake of his death just seven months ago. Kenny won’t be around to revel in the revival. It’s even more painful in light of the revelations about his suffering from advanced stages of CTE, even though it was colon cancer that killed him in July at age 69.

But from what I know of Stabler, and I came in just before last call of his Oakland reign, he would have been appropriately humble about the honor. He would have tipped his shot glass to those who finally voted for him and enjoyed the party. He probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the staid Canton crowd. He definitely wouldn’t have paraded around in that hideous gold jacket.

Far more important, Stabler making the Hall is a redemptive, euphoric moment for those fans still around who crowded into that little bookstore nearly 30 years ago, those people who still remember what he was all about. The E. 14th St. and Mission Blvd. crowds. The inner East Bay. The real East Bay, not the Blackhawk or Orinda East Bay. We’re talking about those fans who still patronize Ricky’s Sports Lounge every weekend in San Leandro, where there’s still a dish named after Stabler. We’re talking about the bartenders who may have poured Stabler a stiff one at the Why Not Club in Hayward, or the Pop Inn in Alameda, or the Bamboo Room in Santa Rosa where the Raiders used to train.

Stabler represented these people. Even though he was an Alabama transplant, he was a man in his element here, usually in any dive where you could hear dice cups pounding, 8-balls smacking, Jones or Seger on the box, any place where you could order a pickled egg or pig’s foot from a large jar behind the counter.

He was out and about the gritty parts of town, people got to know him, and they protected him. He never would have survived in the Twitter age, the Deadspin age, where his exploits and indiscretions would have spilled across the Internet.

He was what Johnny Manziel only dreamed he could be, a party-hearty quarterback who actually did the job on the field. He would go out on Sundays with that creaky body, scraggly beard and matted long hair, looking hung over and often probably truly hung over, and beat the Steelers or Dolphins with that sidearm lefty sling and that uncommon clarity of purpose, style and cool. Stabler’s on-field window of greatness was short, but he did take the Raiders to five straight AFC Championship games, and he was the quarterback for their first Super Bowl win. Stabler was 69-26-1 as a Raiders starter and 7-4 in playoff games. That should have been more than enough to get him into Canton long ago.

Better late than never, though, and you had to love what Biletnikoff had to say about the Snake’s prospects at a Raiders bash this week honoring Madden: “We might be able to dig him up and prop him up for the ceremony. Give him a bottle of scotch.”

Beautiful. Perfect. About the only remorseful thing is that the East Bay’s only real folk hero won’t be there to accept some woman’s undergarments from across an autograph table, slyly wink, and then sign them, “Snake, HOF, 2016.”

Contact Carl Steward at csteward@bayareanewsgroup. Follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/Stewardsfolly.