‘A Six Minute Man’
A Wrestling Story of Struggle, Sacrifice and Success
By KIRSTEN R. CALKINS
We often tell the stories of wrestlers on this
website - their ups and downs and everything
in between as they strive for success. But what
about those who love them? What about the
people who deeply feel those highs and lows
every step of the way?
Kirsten Calkins hasn’t stepped on the mat
to compete, but she has experienced wrestling
at many levels over the years. She takes us on
a journey from her childhood where she be-
gan hating the sport through watching her son
battle for a championship at the New York State
tournament a few weeks ago.
It’s an amazing story that wrestling fami-
lies everywhere will relate to and recognize.
I was born with a basketball in my hands
and it didn’t matter that I was a girl. My father
was a collegiate point guard and a high school
basketball coach. I grew up in a gym shooting
hoops. When someone mentioned wrestling, I
would just shake my head. It was the “other”
winter sport, for the less sensible. I hated it.
Those grapplers were the enemy. During
my dad’s practices, they would stampede up
and down the stairs making the basketball plays
inaudible. Their sticky bodies would drop sweat
and blood on the ground. “Mean” was written all
over their faces. In high school English class, I
sat next to a wrestler who would spit into a cup
every 30 seconds. I hated them.
Then in college, something went terribly
wrong. I fell in love with the “enemy.” Surely
this was a cruel joke? Suddenly, I was asked
to appreciate the only sport that I despised. To
keep the peace, I pretended. I watched my fiancé
suffer from an injury that ended his Division I
career. They said he would never wrestle again.
He did, but was sent to Division III. Year after
year, he would magically turn a 220-pound phy-
sique, into a 190-pound body. From November
to March, I would eat and he would stare. His se-
nior year, he missed becoming an All-American
by one stinking match. He left college disap-
pointed. I hated wrestling.
16
Five years later, something went terribly,
terribly wrong...again. I gave birth to a BOY. My
father immediately arrived with a basketball, and
my husband promptly threw it into the yard for
the dogs to destroy. There would be no talk of
basketball in our house. Over and over I heard,
“There is only one true sport.” I would roll my
eyes. I hated wrestling.
Much to my chagrin, my son began to
wrestle, barely out of Pull-Ups. He showed
promise...until his first match. Full of false confi-
dence, he went out on the mat and was pinned in
15 seconds. He stood up in defeat, trying to keep
a stiff upper lip as sadness poured down his face.
I hated wrestling.
After a few years, the unhappy faces
showed up less often and smiles started to
emerge. Yet, I still watched in total agony. The
expectations became greater and the losses were
felt deeper, especially when you were supposed
to win. Even with a trophy in hand, mistakes
were still noted. No one was ever satisfied. I
hated wrestling.
Then there was “The Injury Year” – un-
recognizable smashed finger, stitched lip #1,
stitched lip #2, black eyes, internal bruising,
blown out knee #1, blown out knee #2 and a
pulled bicep, during a state semi-final match, that
helped send my son to the consolations. After-
wards, his disappointed face looked into mine,
“Mom, why does this keep happening to me?” I
didn’t have an answer. I hated wrestling.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any
worse, it did. My son decided that he had a
dream to chase - a state title. I watched my
child give up outings with his teenage friends, a
starting spot on the soccer team and all his free
weekends. He would drive 2 hours, each way, to
find a wrestler that could beat him up. He would
go from wrestling practice, directly to the weight
room. And most horrifying of all, he gave up
video games. His friends didn’t understand him
anymore. He was alone. I hated wrestling.
At my son’s final high school match, I
watched helplessly as he stepped up to the center
stage, teetering on the edge of that state champi-
onship mat. There was nothing I could do, other
than sit in agony one last time. So few know
what it means to give up a “normal” life for a
6-minute match. I grimaced, surrounded by fans
of wrestling and TV cameras analyzing every
move. To them, my son’s dreams were just part
of a show. I stared loathingly at them all. I hated
wrestling.
Then something miraculous occurred, a
victory. Thinking back on all the times that I
had visualized this spectacular moment, I never
imagined that my son would just stand there,
barely a smile crossing his face. At the final
whistle, I had expected leaps of joy and a million
fist pumps. But he just stood calmly, seemingly
content...like a pioneer at the end of a very long
journey. He was tired, yet completely satisfied
that he had made it. His work was done, the pres-
sure relieved. As the referee lifted an exhausted
arm into the air, my son raised one quiet index
finger into the sky.
With his final gesture, all of his childhood
tears became mine. I stood hidden amongst the
crowd and I cried. Somehow, during his last high
school match, the boy had turned into a six-
minute man.
When he walked off that mat, he knew
more about life’s struggles, sacrifices and com-
mitments than most 40-year-olds. Wrestling had
transformed him into something greater.
To all wrestlers, I am sorry. I was wrong for
so long. I love wrestling.