Devotee, aficionado, superfan — Richard Eisenhardt reached these heights and went beyond in two Chicago staples that don’t necessarily draw much overlap.
The Chicago Blackhawks.
And theater — all of it, from storefront productions to the big stages downtown.
Mr. Eisenhardt was a founding member of the Chicago Blackhawks Standby Club, a group of tight-knit loyalists who, for several decades beginning in the ’60s, traveled to away games several times a year, helped establish and raise money for the Stan Mikita scholarship fund, and held banquets at the end of each season that were attended by players and front office employees alike.
He also was a theater nut who, beginning in 1976, created booklets that he pieced together in his basement that contained information on what shows were in town and the folks behind them. He dropped them off, as many as he could carry, in the lobbies of theaters and coffee shops — to the delight of pre-internet theater fans. He did it on his own dime. And he never owned a car. He’d hitch rides, take taxis or walk.
The theater world loved him for it.
He also attended 150 to 200 shows a year for decades. He was one of the fans who waited in the lobby to greet actors, many of whom knew him by name. He also offered up reviews (mostly positive, sometimes critical, never scathing).
“I’m a great Blackhawks supporter — season tickets over 25 years,” he told the Chicago Sun-Times in 1988. “This causes problems: theater openings are usually Wednesdays and that’s when the Blackhawks play. So I’ll attend the theater another night.”
Mr. Eisenhardt died Jan. 10 from natural causes and was buried in his Blackhawks jersey and with a hat emblazoned with titles of Andrew Lloyd Weber productions. He was 89.
He also sometimes wore a Blackhawks jersey with his name on the back to the theater. He had a Patrick Kane jersey and a Jonathan Toews jersey, too.
He never considered putting out a hockey newsletter.
William “Wirtz gets plenty of people to pack the stadium,” he told the Chicago Reader in 1993. “I want to see the theaters packed. I want to see a theater that seats 125 people have at least 100 people in the audience and not a paltry 18 or five.”
For his 80th birthday, public relations maven Noreen Heron hosted a party at her agency’s Lincoln Park office with a cake that was decorated with a Blackhawks symbol and comedy and tragedy masks. Tribune theater critic Chris Jones and former Sun-Times theater critic Hedy Weiss were in attendance, as were Chris Henderson, former executive director of Chicago Shakespeare Theater, actress Paula Scrofano, pianist and actor Hershey Felder, actress Renee Matthews and Michael Weber, artistic director of Porchlight Theater.
“In this very analog way, he made his presence known to different public relation firms to say ‘I love theater. How can I help?’ And they basically said, ‘What’s the harm?’ And sent him press releases,” Weber said.
Weber was a teenager waiting in the lobby of a theater for his girlfriend, who’d just acted in a play, when he first met Mr. Eisenhardt.
“At first, it was like ‘Who is this guy? What is he doing?’ But then you came to understand he wasn’t someone who wanted something from you but only to provide encouragement and specific positive feedback and talk about theater.”
Mr. Eisenhardt, who was an inch over five feet tall, was always looking for a ride to shows, which resulted in countless genuine and symbiotic relationships.
“This sort of elfin little man, as he did for many others, offered me to see shows for free as long as I could drive,” Weber said.
Behind the wheel of his 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air, Weber scooped up Mr. Eisenhardt and, as a result, saw actors like Gary Sinise and John Malkovich early in their careers.
“He had an enormous effect on a lot of people who went on to become part of the theater community, including me,” he said.
Mr. Eisenhardt’s random acts of kindness are remembered well.
“He’d find out an actor or director’s birthday and send them a birthday card with a gift card. The thoughtfulness. Who could you say that ever does something like that?” Heron said.
He carried gift cards to share with anyone he struck up a great conversation with, like a barber, or someone he met at a restaurant. He carried milk bones for dogs on his block if he went for a walk. He lived in the same two-flat in Lake View where he grew up, never changing rooms from the one he stayed in as a boy.
In 2003, when his extensive collection of VHS, cassette and Betamax tapes that contained recordings of old radio, television shows and movies seemed to be nearing their life expectancy, he reached out to a company that could transfer the content to CDs and DVDs by writing a letter that included a request for a senior discount.
“I was like, ‘Dude, these things can probably be found somewhere online,” said Mitchell Norinsky, who received the letter, became friends with Mr. Eisenhardt — who never married or had kids — and helped Mr. Eisenhardt navigate life in the years before his death.
“We called each other adoptive brothers,” Norinsky said before recounting memories like holiday eggnog at The Walnut Room or the image of Mr. Eisenhardt holding Norinksy’s young daughter’s hand during a visit to the Shedd Aquarium.
“He had a fire in his belly to live and experience,” Norinsky said, noting that he saw his last play in 2024.
Mr. Eisenhardt was born April 7, 1935, in Chicago to Clarence and Eunice Eisenhardt but was mostly raised by his mother and stepfather, Donald Nesselroth, who both worked at a company that manufactured printing equipment.
He attended Blaine Elementary and graduated from Lake View High School in 1953, where he participated in school theater. He later studied accounting at DePaul University and put the numbers skills to work while serving in the Army for two years in South Korea.
Mr. Eisenhardt for many years took veterans and service members who were training at Naval Station Great Lakes to shows or Blackhawks games.
He had a long career with the Chicago & North Western Railway in passenger accounting. One story he liked to tell was the time he had to get author John Grisham on the phone to settle up a delinquent account.
“He was genuinely compelled, at his own expense, to share his enthusiasm with other people,” Weber said.
Services have been held.