The news came through TMZ on a Tuesday night in May, secondhand and a little surreal, as is the case with most celebrity deaths these days. According to his son, Travis, Donald Gibb passed away in front of his family at his Texas home. He was seventy-one. And that was all anyone knew for a few hours. The details emerged more slowly and later, as grief typically does in real life rather than in the news.
We eventually discovered that Gibb had been fighting throat cancer and had had a heart attack just a few weeks before his passing. Although the cancer ultimately claimed his life, his son told reporters that his father bravely accepted the diagnosis and battled it tenaciously. Reading about a man whose whole on-screen persona was based on being unbreakable is a small but sobering thing. The tall frat brute who chugged beer from trophies and threw nerds off rooftops was ultimately killed by the most commonplace and brutal human beings.
The fact that it all took place in private has a subtle, perhaps even melancholy quality. Gibb didn’t provide any updates. There was no farewell tour of interviews or public campaign. You can tell the family was serious when they requested prayers and privacy. In a time when sickness frequently finds satisfaction, his did not. He just became ill, stayed at home, and allowed his loved ones to be close to him.
I can’t stop thinking about the character’s distance from the man. Frederick “Ogre” Palowaski was a cartoon of macho excess; he was loud, dim, and gleefully aggressive. However, those who knew Gibb in real life tell a completely different story. Generous and kind. His kids described him as gentle off-screen and larger-than-life on screen. His co-star on Bloodsport, Jean-Claude Van Damme, shared a picture of the two of them along with the caption, “Rest in peace, my brother.” It sounded more like the voice of a man truly taken by surprise than a publicist’s tribute.
His resume presents a specific American narrative. A basketball scholarship at New Mexico, a football transfer to San Diego, and a brief stint on the Chargers roster before his body, the odds, or both drove him to become an actor. Uncredited small roles in Conan the Barbarian and Stripes. Then Ogre, and a level of immortality that he most likely never anticipated from a college comedy. He played the part twice more. In Bloodsport, he portrayed Ray Jackson. He appeared on what seems like half of the television shows from the 1980s, including MacGyver, Quantum Leap, The X-Files, and The A-Team.
It’s difficult to ignore the fact that a heart attack and throat cancer occurring so soon after each other point to a body that had just been carrying a lot for a long time. Physical roles for decades. The wear of a long life. To be honest, we shouldn’t expect to know the whole medical picture. However, there’s a feeling that the family’s silence served as a sort of shield during the challenging past few weeks.
Perhaps this is the real legacy. Not the catchphrase yelled at the Tri-Lambs or the belching competitions, though those still exist. In the end, a man who was known for being the loudest person in the room decided to leave quietly—at home, among his own. You become aware of how many people grew up with that face as you watch the tributes come in. And how odd it is to discover what he was secretly carrying all along, only now.