The Great Celebrity Die-Off

Are famous people dying at a faster rate?

As several Americans known to even the most brain-fogged among us died in early January, I figured The Great Celebrity Die-Off was finally commencing.

I've been predicting it for years.

But generally, the rich and famous are clinging to life. I'm disappointed my theory of galloping famous-people mortality is yet to be proven, but not too disappointed.

After all, it's unseemly to be a cheering section for death.

The theory: Decades ago, I noticed that famous people tend to die at the rate of one a day, maybe a little less. I maintain that rate has to burgeon eventually because there are just so many more famous old people than there used to be.

I think the rise of television about 60 years ago created celebrities at a much faster clip than before. Maybe three times as fast. That estimate is not based on anything as questionable as statistical analysis. But still. 

I figured that most famous people get famous as they approach 30, so lots of them should be into their 80s, when the hold on breathing generally becomes more tenuous. 

So at some point, three major celebrities will be trending on Twitter every day, and not in a good way.

We will at some point see multiple childhood heroes pass away on Mondays and we’ll still be getting over that when more croak on Tuesdays.

As 2022 began, the megafamous were dying thick and fast. Celebrity scientist Richard Leakey was an early casualty, as were movie director Peter Bogdanovich and pioneering actor Sidney Poitier. Lani Guinier, a polarizing figure in 1980s politics, is also gone, as are NFL stars Ross Browner and Dan Reeves, and Michael Lang, one of the guys behind Woodstock.

Much-loved comic actor Bob Saget died, as did Dwayne Hickman, star of the hit 1960s sitcom The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis. Ronnie Spector, an unforgettable performer of long ago, gone too.

These celebrities were preceded in death by America's honorary great-grandma, Betty White, whose nearly century-long journey ended on New Year's Eve. A few days before that, John Madden, football's most famous figure for decades, went to the big sideline in the sky. 

But despite all the funerals of the rich and famous, miles-long corteges weren’t blocking traffic any more often than they were 30 years ago. The January casualties may have been more celebrated than usual, but not more numerous. Maybe less so.

Never did three celebrities die on a single day. Only twice did two depart on one day – Bogdanovich and Poitier on Jan. 6 and Hickman and Saget on Jan. 9. And there were several January days when no big shots failed to stay alive.

Yes, bassist Big Daddy Weave died in early January, but he probably doesn't quite qualify as a big-time famous dead guy. Actress Kim Mi-soo, maybe, if you're into Korean movies. 

I previously explored this subject in print in the summer of 2019, at which time I noticed that famous people weren’t dying on my schedule.

A little research – very little – gave me an explanation of sorts. Though the average American lifespan is 79, it's also true that once people make it to 65 they're likely to live another 20 years or more.

That's because at 65, they’re no longer likely to be taking the kinds of risks that lead to premature death. They may also have become resigned to mid-life despair by then.

So I revised my prediction to guess that we weren't quite ready for The Great Celebrity Die-Off in 2019, but that by 2024 or so, the trend would be so substantial it couldn’t be denied. That meant that the ramp-up to that awful moment should be going on about now (Especially since we’ve recently encountered a new way for lots of old people to die).

Not happening. 

This despite there being 82% more people in the U.S. than in 1960. That's 82% more people to possibly achieve fame, and 82% more people to recognize it.

Also, there are more pathways to fame, aside from mere TV exposure, than there used to be. For instance, the number of publicly admired athletes greatly increased as major leagues expanded. 

Forty-five players were employed by the New York Mets in the team's first season in 1962. As of 2019, 28 were still alive. Thirteen more have died since then.

Death is catching up with the Mets, but that doesn't actually help my theory, since barely anyone outside New York seems to remember who they were.

Those old Mets who died in the last few years were well-represented by Sammy Taylor, 1933-2019, for five years a Cubs backup catcher before being traded to the Mets during their initial season. The most significant moment in Taylor’s career came the day in 1959 that an umpire prematurely handed him a new ball while another ball was rolling to the backstop, still in play. Taylor trustingly tossed the new ball to the pitcher, who, seeing a runner trying to advance, immediately hurled it over the second baseman's head. Hijinks ensued.

The 1962 Mets, arguably the worst team in Major League history, just had to have a guy like Taylor. But his death was little remarked nationally.

Similarly, the Jan. 2 passing of the Cubs’ Larry Biitner was noted by some, but not many. The highlight of his career was an incident when he had difficulty locating a ball in the Wrigley Field outfield because it was under his hat.

The 1962 Mets are now dying off rapidly enough to fit my theory. But like Biitner, they're just not interesting enough to be significantly mourned from afar.

It's possible that points to a flaw in my theory. Maybe more people are famous, but they're not famous enough. Many Mets players just don't cut it 20 miles west of the Hudson River. 

Maybe fame ain't what it used to be when there are more famous people. 

If that's so, Betty White is an exception. Everybody knows who she was, and almost everybody liked her.

She lived a long time, outlasting her peers. All the rest of The Golden Girls are already dead. Just about everybody on The Mary Tyler Moore Show is dead, too. So the theory works in her case: Two entire groups of people made famous in the early days of TV, who might not be known without it,  are now dead. And the death of every one of them made the news.

Just like sitcom actors, there are thousands more pro football players to anticipate the deaths of than there used to be.

The National Football League expanded at about the same time as baseball. In 1959, there were 12 NFL teams. In 1960, there were 13, plus the American Football League fielded eight more. When the leagues merged in 1970, there were a total of 21. That’s over 400 more players per season than 11 years before.

More coaches, owners, broadcasters, sportswriters, too. And most of them don't have long to live.

This may point, however, to another flaw in my theory. I looked up the 1970 roster of the Chicago Bears, my hometown team, and I remembered only seven of the 48 players. And I couldn't pick most of those seven out of a lineup. 

It occurred to me that if I was sufficiently old to remember most of the 40 players with enough fondness to mourn them, I'd probably be dead, too. 

Dead guys don’t read obituaries.

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