I finished reading HITMAN, the autobiography of Bret Hart, earlier this week. Those who will tolerate my talking about wrestling know that he was my favorite worker. Even when he turned heel in 1997, I still secretly wanted him to win. I recognized even then (I was 13) that the man was an artist. He knew how to tell stories. He had a way with words. His matches looked like real fights.
HITMAN came out in 2007 or 2008, but I put off reading it due to its length. Plus, I wasn’t really into wrestling at the time. I cycled out of it, going all in on musical endeavors from 2003 to 2010. I didn’t start watching wrestling again until 2015, and a lot of it started with revisiting some of Bret’s promos. Some critics say he was never a good talker, but I don’t know; he had a down-to-earth, working-class character that I always vibed with, and still do.
The book, at 546 pages, is quite a doorstop, and it spans his life from a childhood growing up with eleven siblings and a wrestling promoter father to the unceremonious end of his career after a botched kick to the head from Goldberg.
I’ve talked at length with Kelby Losack and J. David Osborne about spoilers and that we kinda, not so secretly, love them. In a memoir of a wrestler whose career I’ve followed, spoilers were inevitable. I knew how it would all end. I knew his little brother Owen would die in a terrible in-ring stunt. I knew all about the Montreal Screwjob. I knew about the way Bret’s career would end.
And yet, I couldn’t stop reading. I honestly believe that a truly good artist could have the surprises in their work ruined without adversely affecting the enjoyment of the work.
HITMAN is such a book. Bret writes with the same down-to-earth, working-class sensibilities he brought to his wrestling persona. He writes with an honesty I long to see in everything I read.
I know that every time I talk about wrestling I alienate my audience, but seriously, if you want a well-written, heartbreaking and insightful book, you could do a hell of a lot worse than HITMAN.