Stu Kirshenbaum
I’ve spent a good chunk of my life hanging around ballparks, usually holding a microphone and trying not to get run over by a foul ball or an angry relief pitcher. But every now and then someone tells you a story that reminds you why these places matter in the first place. When I asked Stu Kirshenbaum about his baseball fandom, he didn’t start with statistics or analytics—he started with a two-dollar bleacher seat at Fenway Park and a Monday afternoon game in 1978. What followed was a story involving ancient stadium gates, Curt Gowdy, a furious mayor of Boston… and one of the most unforgettable days Fenway Park has ever seen.
If you're familiar with the Immaculate Grid, how would you describe your baseball fandom, Stu? Where did it start?
It didn’t start as early as it does for most kids. I was obsessed with astronauts first—I was in Texas in the 60s when the space race was happening. But my grandfather was a big baseball fan. He was a New York Giants fan who became a San Francisco Giants fan when the team moved. Through my father, I became a Phillies fan, the local team where we lived in Pennsylvania. And I still am.
Tell me how you ended up next to the mayor of Boston for the Bucky Dent game.
I was a student at Boston University. Every September I went to as many Red Sox games as possible because back then you could sit in the bleachers for two dollars. Imagine that—watching Fred Lynn, Jim Rice, Carlton Fisk, Rick Burleson, Jerry Remy…for two dollars.
One morning I saw a little note in the Boston Globe saying that if there was a playoff game on Monday, tickets would go on sale right after Saturday’s game.
So I went to that Saturday game. The Red Sox beat Toronto, and afterward I went straight to the ticket office on Yawkey Way. The guy says, “Second row behind the Red Sox on-deck circle. Will that work?”
Of course it worked.
The Monday game was a 2:30 afternoon start. I’m pretty sure I was the very first person inside Fenway Park that day. I lined up early, and when they opened those old Fenway gates I just ran in.
When I got down to the box seats there was nobody there. I walked right down to the field.
Don Drysdale was standing there talking to Tony Kubek before the broadcast. I was so close I could practically touch them. Drysdale had a cigarette cupped in his hand, and Kubek had one too, both trying to hide them like kids so the teacher wouldn’t catch them. It was funny—these idols of mine suddenly seemed human.
Then I found my seat, and the governor of Massachusetts sat right in front of me.
About fifteen minutes before the game there’s a commotion. The mayor of Boston, Kevin White, comes in and sits right next to me.
I introduce myself: “Mr. Mayor, my name is Stu Kirshenbaum. I’m a sophomore at BU.”
He says, “Pleasure to meet you, Stu.” And we just chatted the whole game like two guys watching baseball.
The moment I remember most came in the eighth inning. Reggie Jackson hit a home run to make it 5–2 Yankees, and the entire ballpark started chanting:
“Reggie sucks! Reggie sucks!”
Now remember—this is 1978. “Sucks” was basically a curse word back then. The mayor turns to me and asks, “Stu, what are they saying?”
I say, “Mr. Mayor, I’m not sure you want me to tell you.”
“No, no, you tell me.”
So I finally say it.
“They’re chanting ‘Reggie sucks.’”
The mayor absolutely loses his mind.
“My God! This is terrible! The city is being embarrassed on national television!”
He’s grabbing his security guys and telling them they have to make the crowd stop chanting.
Which, of course, was completely impossible.
What was it like when the game ended?
The Red Sox nearly came back. Goose Gossage came in and pitched multiple innings—which was a big deal in those days.
In the ninth inning they still had a chance. Burleson got on. Jerry Remy hit a frozen rope to right field. Lou Piniella lost it in the sun and just stuck his glove up—and somehow the ball stuck.
It saved the Yankees.
Then Yaz came up and popped out to third.
When that ball went up…you could literally hear the air leave Fenway Park.
The entire stadium went silent.
The only sound was the Yankees celebrating.
After a few seconds the organist started playing and people began slowly filing out. But the feeling in that stadium was like someone punched everyone in the gut. People were stunned.
As I was leaving, about ten rows up I saw Curt Gowdy.
One of the greatest broadcasters ever. A Red Sox legend.
He looked absolutely devastated.
And I’m 18 years old and stupid—which is probably redundant.
I walk up and ask him for an autograph.
He had every right to punch me in the face.
Instead, he signed my program and said very kindly, “Here you are, son.”
I walked up the aisle and immediately realized how inappropriate that was. But that’s what I remember from the end of that game.
Stu, how long did you work for MLB Productions?
Fourteen years.
You produced those end-of-year team films.
Yes—and I also worked on This Week in Baseball.
Back then there was no SportsCenter. No social media. If something amazing happened in the Mariners-Twins game, the only way to see it was to wait for This Week in Baseball.
Our job was to take all the great moments from the week—highlights, milestones, bloopers—and compress them into a 22-minute show.
It was a labor of love.
And I got to work with Mel Allen, one of the great voices in baseball history.
Mel Allen became almost like a second grandfather to me.
NOTE: The above was edited for clarity and length.
You can read the full transcript here.