Barry Horowitz book deserves a pat on the back
One of the perks of writing for SlamWrestling.net is that I sometimes get to review books about one of my favorite subjects—wrestling. I was excited by the prospect of reviewing Barry Horowitz’s autobiography, Wrestling Is My Gimmick: My Life on the Wrong Side of the Three Count, as told to Jason Norman, with a foreword by Horowitz’s son, Joshua.
Horowitz’s choice to have his son introduce the book speaks volumes about his values. While many wrestlers seek validation by having industry legends endorse their work, Horowitz honors his family instead. Family is a recurring theme throughout the book—from his upbringing in Florida to his brief first marriage (marked by tragedy, including a daughter he barely knew who passed away young) to his lasting second marriage.
Horowitz makes it clear that wrestling was a means to support his family, with whom he eagerly spent time when he was off the road. Given the sensational nature of most wrestling autobiographies, Horowitz should be admired for his grounded approach in an industry known for using people up and discarding them all too readily.
Bigger names appear throughout the book, often praising Horowitz’s in-ring abilities and questioning why he never received a sustained push. One gets the sense that Horowitz himself wonders the same, yet he accepts his role in wrestling history better than most—grateful rather than bitter.
Wrestling Is My Gimmick clocks in at a cruiserweight-worthy 216 pages. For a career that began in the territory system and included stints in WWE, WCW, and larger independents like Florida and the Global Wrestling Federation in Texas, the book feels a bit short. This may be because, as an enhancement talent, Horowitz was rarely involved in the lengthy storylines that fans often remember. His job was to make his opponents look good—whether facing the same wrestler across multiple house show loops or a variety of one-off matches.
Horowitz name-checks many of his opponents (or, to put it more accurately, those he lost to) and acknowledges those who helped him along the way. He begins and ends the book by managing his readers’ expectations—steering clear of backstage gossip. Instead, he offers brief accounts of his proximity to infamous incidents, such as Jimmy Snuka’s alleged murder of Nancy Argentino and Chris Benoit’s tragic end. Having worked with both, he shares his personal experiences without sensationalism.
Beyond these cases, the harshest criticism Horowitz offers is toward wrestlers who worked too stiffly for comfort. He takes his hirings and firings in stride and makes it clear throughout the book that he will not speak ill of anyone he dislikes, personally or professionally. As Horowitz puts it, “Why put them over?” While a commendable approach, a bit more candid reflection might have made for a more compelling read.
Wrestling Is My Gimmick moves quickly—perhaps too quickly—especially through Horowitz’s early years training under Professor Boris Malenko alongside his sons, Dean and Joe. Several notable names are mentioned, often followed by statements like, “I didn’t know him that well.”
I would have liked more insight into Horowitz’s experience as a Jewish wrestler in a historically insular industry. While pro wrestling has featured many Jewish stars, some have spoken openly about feeling “different”—facing acceptance in some promotions while encountering blatant antisemitism in others. Paul Heyman, for example, has been vocal about Bill Watts‘ racism and antisemitism.
However, Horowitz takes a stance similar to Pat Patterson, whose autobiography, Accepted: How the First Gay Superstar Changed WWE, downplayed professional discrimination in favor of focusing on personal triumphs. Horowitz made staying out of trouble and making himself useful his top priorities. Whether that kept him away from bigotry or he simply refused to dignify it by acknowledging it in his story, the reader is left to decide.
Despite its brevity, Wrestling Is My Gimmick is an intriguing read. There have been other wrestling autobiographies by grapplers who lost more than they won—Bob Holly’s The Hardcore Truth comes to mind. However, Holly’s career was a rung or two above Horowitz’s, with championship wins and ample promo time. As an enhancement talent, Horowitz rarely got the chance to speak on the microphone during his career. Apart from recent shoot interviews and his brief WWE push, Wrestling Is My Gimmick provides a rare opportunity to hear his voice.
The book’s lack of scandal may also contribute to its brevity. Horowitz was known among his peers as straight-laced and committed to his second chance at family life. The wildest story I’ve ever heard about him involved borrowing (and allegedly not returning) an adult magazine on an international WWE tour—hardly the stuff of salacious tell-alls. Horowitz does little to dispel his clean-cut reputation, making it clear that while he enjoyed his time in wrestling, his true focus was always on life outside the ring.
For readers with families and careers of their own, it’s refreshing to read about a wrestler who prioritized his personal life over the spotlight. Horowitz insists he is not “famous,” but rather “known.” Wrestlers like Ric Flair and Hulk Hogan have squandered their fortunes and goodwill, but Horowitz seems content with his legacy. While he has his scars—sciatica pain on one side, a bum leg on the other—he seems far better off than many of his peers. Given the choice, I’d take his retirement over that of Flair or Hogan any day.
Horowitz’s tone is a mix of conversational and instructional, shifting between personal anecdotes, professional reflections, and broader truths about wrestling and life. Wrestling Is My Gimmick reads like an extended coffee break with a senior co-worker—one who occasionally glosses over details that might make his story even more compelling.
As someone who often wonders how wrestlers feel about their place in the industry hierarchy and whether wins and losses truly matter, I appreciated Horowitz’s blunt honesty. For him, wrestling was “only” a job. He finds deeper meaning in his college degree, his work outside wrestling, and his family—despite the tragedy of losing his daughter.
The final pages of the book focus on the recent resurgence of interest in his career. Horowitz expresses disappointment in WWE’s shelved documentary on enhancement talent but appreciates the exposure it brought him. He was also thrilled with his recent appearances, including a promo for AEW hyping MJF and a one-off match in Impact Wrestling against Johnny Swinger.
Ultimately, Horowitz remains grateful to his fans. He acknowledges that today’s audience has become more analytical and appreciates his work in hindsight.
I first learned about Barry Horowitz’s autobiography in August. It was set to arrive in November, but due to a lengthy Canada Post strike, it finally showed up on Christmas Eve—the night before Hanukkah.
I thoroughly enjoyed this book and highly recommend it. A true Hanukkah miracle for wrestling fans everywhere.
