Professional wrestling has never been short on gimmicks. From masked executioners to blood-spitting madmen, the squared circle has always had its share of oddballs. But no one—absolutely no one—looked or moved quite like Haystacks Calhoun, the 600-pound country boy from Texas who lumbered into the ring wearing overalls, a bushy beard, and a genuine horseshoe on a chain around his neck.
He wasn’t a technician. He wasn’t a champion. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be able to move half the time. But Haystacks was a show. A spectacle. A living, breathing carnival attraction disguised as a wrestler. And for nearly three decades, fans couldn’t get enough of him.
From Eggs to Overalls
William Dee Calhoun was born on a Texas farm in 1934, a boy destined to outgrow everything—including the farm itself. By 14 he was already tipping the scales at 300 pounds, fueled by a breakfast diet of a dozen eggs. By his twenties, he weighed over 600, and promoters salivated. Legend has it he was discovered after a promoter saw him casually moving cows across a field like furniture.
They slapped overalls on him, handed him a horseshoe, and told him to smile. Thus “Haystacks” Calhoun was born—a hybrid of Paul Bunyan, a country bumpkin stereotype, and an immovable object.
A National Spectacle
Haystacks made his first national splash not in a ring but on television. On Art Linkletter’s House Party, he wowed audiences by tossing 75-pound bales of hay into a loft like a man tossing pillows. He leaned into the shtick: Morgan’s Corner, Arkansas became his fake birthplace, the horseshoe became his calling card, and the overalls became his uniform.
Promoters didn’t need him to win belts. They needed him to sell tickets. And he did. Calhoun was a guaranteed draw, especially in handicap matches and battle royals where watching him squash two or three opponents at once was worth the price of admission. He was the perfect sideshow attraction in an era that thrived on them.
The Heavyweight Circus
At 600 pounds, Calhoun was huge. But even he looked small next to Happy Humphrey, the 800-pound behemoth billed as “the world’s heaviest wrestler.” Their clashes at Madison Square Garden in the early ’60s were pure spectacle: two human freight trains colliding in slow motion, the kind of bout that drew gawkers and sportswriters alike.
Humphrey’s balance was terrible, his speed nonexistent. Calhoun, by comparison, looked nimble. More often than not, he won simply by tossing Humphrey to the outside and letting gravity and the referee’s count do the work. As Calhoun later put it: “I slammed him easier than the average-size fellow. When I learned he was up to 800 pounds I warned him that it wasn’t healthy.” Dark humor, yes—but Calhoun wasn’t wrong.
The Almost-Champion
Despite his drawing power, promoters rarely booked Calhoun for world titles. He wasn’t built for 60-minute broadways or technical clinics. He was built to be a spectacle. Still, he got his shots.
On January 28, 1961, he challenged “Nature Boy” Buddy Rogers for the U.S. Heavyweight Title in New York. Rogers, slick and cocky, outmaneuvered the big man. Their April rematch in Chicago ended in bizarre fashion when Rogers’ dropkick sent Calhoun into the ropes, snapping the middle rope and sending the giant tumbling to the concrete floor. Counted out. You couldn’t script slapstick better.
Yet Calhoun remained a headliner. Fans didn’t need him to be a champion. They just wanted to see the overalls, the horseshoe, and the mountain of flesh smothering unlucky opponents.
Partners in Sheer Tonnage
Calhoun’s career was built on spectacle, and nowhere was that clearer than in his tag teams. With Man Mountain Mike, another 600-pounder, they created a combined weight of over 1,200 pounds of humanity in the ring. It wasn’t strategy—it was intimidation.
He also held tag team gold in Vancouver with Don Leo Jonathan, one of wrestling’s great giants. And in the Northeast, he paired with Tony Garea to capture the WWWF Tag Team Titles in 1973 from Mr. Fuji and Professor Tanaka. For six months, overalls and clean-cut Garea made one of the oddest championship duos in wrestling history before dropping the belts back.
The Diner Story
If you want to understand Calhoun’s legend, forget the belts. Remember the diners.
Andre the Giant loved telling the story of the night he and Calhoun walked into a $2 all-you-can-eat joint. The waitress nearly fainted. The manager peeked out, saw the two leviathans, and went pale. After demolishing what amounted to $25 worth of food for $4, the pair felt bad and paid full price.
The manager was grateful. And probably terrified they’d ever return.
The Decline of the Giant
By the late ’70s, Calhoun’s weight was catching up with him. Diabetes forced him into retirement in 1980, and by 1986 he had lost a leg to the disease. His final years were spent confined to a double-wide trailer in Texas, far from the roar of arenas.
He died on December 7, 1989, at just 55 years old. It was a cruel ending for a man whose very size had once been his ticket to fame but ultimately became his prison.
Legacy in the Overalls
Calhoun’s legacy lives on not in title histories but in gimmicks. He inspired Giant Haystacks in the U.K. (who later became Loch Ness in WCW). His presence helped the fledgling WWWF draw crowds in the early ’70s. And his image—overalls, beard, horseshoe—remains one of the most iconic visuals of wrestling’s territory era.
He was inducted into WWE’s Hall of Fame Legacy Wing in 2017, a nod to his impact as one of wrestling’s greatest attractions. He wasn’t Lou Thesz, he wasn’t Bruno Sammartino, but he didn’t need to be. Haystacks Calhoun was proof that wrestling needed its carnival giants just as much as its technical champions.
Epilogue
In the end, Haystacks Calhoun was less about wins and losses and more about wonder. He was the guy you bought a ticket to see because you couldn’t quite believe a man that size could walk, let alone wrestle. He was part athlete, part sideshow, part American myth.
Wrestling has always thrived on its extremes—heroes and villains, giants and underdogs. Haystacks Calhoun was wrestling’s living extreme, a man whose sheer size made him unforgettable, and whose gentle country-boy demeanor made him beloved.
The Man of the Horseshoe may not have had a thousand holds, but he didn’t need them. He had one hold over wrestling fans: the ability to make them look, laugh, and cheer. And in the end, that’s all any wrestler really needs.