Frank Gotch Iowa Wrestling Champion

Frank Gotch didn't waste any time in the ring. He went straight
for his killer toehold that brought many opponents to tears.

On paper, Frank Gotch didn’t stand a chance. He was just a farm kid from Humboldt, Iowa, the youngest of nine children born to Frederick and Amelia Gotch. Like any Iowa farm boy in the late 1800s, his life comprised hard labor and long days.

His hands grew calloused from milking cows and pitching hay. His breath carried the sour edge of hog pens, and his body ached from endless chores. Still, wrestling was always in him.

Frank squared off against his brothers just for the thrill, never tiring of the struggle. Neighbors shook their heads and laughed, saying he would wrestle a fencepost if nobody else was around.

No one expected him to become the first American wrestling superstar. It was mostly a European man’s game at the turn of the century. Americans might cheer local matches, but world champions were forged overseas. Frank Gotch changed that.

In June 1899, he stepped onto a rough cinder track in the tiny town of Lu Verne, Iowa, to face Dan McLeod, the reigning American heavyweight champion. The match lasted over two hours. Gotch fought like a man possessed, never letting McLeod rest, never letting him forget he was there to win. In the end, McLeod won, but later he admitted Gotch nearly broke him. That admission caught the attention of Martin “Farmer” Burns, the wiry veteran who was already a legend in American wrestling. Burns took the farm boy under his wing.

After he retired, Gotch went on the road offering $250 to any
man who could last fifteen minutes against him.

He trained Gotch and drilled him until his lungs were iron, and his grip felt like steel hooks. Most importantly, he taught him the toehold, a move so brutal it could end a match in seconds. The hold twisted an opponent’s ankle until the pain became unbearable. It was a killer weapon, and in Gotch’s hands it made men scream for mercy.

Not long after, Gotch headed north to the Klondike. The Yukon was wild country—gold fever had drawn rough men from every corner of the earth. They worked in the mines all day, then gathered at night in smoky, lantern-lit tents.

For entertainment, they drank whiskey and bet on wrestling matches. Gotch fought under the name “Frank Kennedy,” billing himself as the “Champion of the Klondike.” He twisted men’s ankles until they shrieked and slammed their bodies down like sacks of grain. The gold dust poured in, and when he returned home, his boots jingled with the weight of it.

On April 3, 1908, he met George Hackenschmidt at the Dexter Park Pavilion in Chicago. Hackenschmidt, better known as the Russian Lion, looked like a statue of a Greek god come to life. He was thick-chested, carved from muscle, undefeated, and feared the world over. He was expected to crush the Iowa farm boy in what newspapers predicted would be a slaughter.

When the two men locked up, Hackenschmidt tried to bully him with brute strength. Gotch leaned in, pressing his head hard, grinding his face, thumbing near the eyes, and butting every chance he got. Referee Ed Smith later observed, “Hackenschmidt quit quite cold… there was nothing about Gotch’s treatment of him that could… call for a disqualification.”

Gotch made a small fortune wrestling in the Klonike.

Hackenschmidt admitted defeat, declaring, “I surrender the championship of the world to Mr. Gotch.” He shook Gotch’s hand and left the ring. Later, he explained the loss—saying his muscles were stale, his feet gave out, and he saw no chance left—but the truth was plain. He had been beaten.

They met again on September 4, 1911, at Comiskey Park. Nearly 30,000 spectators filled the stadium, paying what added up to a record-breaking gate of around $87,000. The rumor mill said Hackenschmidt injured his knee before the fight. Gotch, sensing weakness, locked in the dreaded toehold twice. Hackenschmidt melted again, and Gotch walked off the mat as king of the wrestling world.

Over the course of his career, Gotch fought 160 professional matches, racking up roughly four wins for every loss. He defeated Tom Jenkins, one of America’s toughest champions, and Stanislaus Zbyszko, a Polish powerhouse who had crushed nearly everyone else in his path. On June 1, 1910, Gotch dispatched Zbyszko in just thirty minutes, leaving the European stunned and humiliated. With every victory, Gotch proved he wasn’t only strong; he was clever, relentless, and faster than men twice his size.

Still, whispers about his tactics followed him everywhere. Some said he greased himself to make it harder for opponents to grip. Others accused him of hair-pulling, eye-gouging, even snapping bones if the referee was distracted. Lou Thesz, one of wrestling’s legends, said: “Gotch was a dirty wrestler. He delighted in hurting or torturing lesser opponents and made sure to have the referee in his pocket.” Referee Ed Smith recalled “needless acts of absolute cruelty” even after an opponent was clearly beaten. To his critics, Gotch was a rule-bender who took pleasure in hurting his opponents. To his fans, he was a champion who did whatever it took to win.

After retiring in 1913, Gotch toured the country with the Sells-Floto Circus. Crowds roared when he stepped into the ring, tipping his hat with a showman’s grin. He offered $250 to any man who could last fifteen minutes against him. Many men tried their luck. No one collected the prize. Every opponent left limping, bruised, or flat on their back.

On December 17, 1917, Frank Gotch died. Doctors said the cause was uremic poisoning, but whispers spread that he had contracted syphilis. Whatever the truth, his death sent shockwaves. Chicago papers bellowed headlines: “Frank Gotch, King of Man, Dies in Iowa.” In Humboldt, the townspeople mourned their son in silence.