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Drago: On Mountains We Stand
Rising from the ashes in Moscow, a broken warrior goes in search of atonement, in search of retribution and in search of a better self.
A story that has captured the hearts and minds of sports fans throughout the world. Feel every blow and unearth the answer to the all-important question...
What ever happened to Ivan Drago?
A story that has captured the hearts and minds of sports fans throughout the world. Feel every blow and unearth the answer to the all-important question...
What ever happened to Ivan Drago?
- GenresSports
87 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1991
9 people are currently reading
331 people want to read
About the author
Todd Noy
5 books56 followersTodd Noy was a prizewinning sports journalist from Perth, Western Australia. He has written for VFL Weekly, The Guardian, and K.O. Magazine. His novels include Ocre Dyke (1976), March of the Knoxmen (1977), House of Fuego (1980), The Alabaster Wars (1981), and Drago: On Mountains we Stand (1989). His short works include Limey and Me, Letters to Dante, and Gout.
Noy disappeared in January 1992 after a long battle with drug and alcohol addictions. Presumed dead, a memorial service was held in his honour in Perth in December 1995. He is survived by his two sons Marlon and Quince, and his beautiful long-term partner, English cellist, Elizabeth Harrington.
Through the tireless efforts of Marlon Noy and Robert Wallace, the Noy Estate has painstakingly restored and continues to release limited editions of Todd's classic works, including Noy's semi-autobiographical, previously unreleased volume SWARMER.
Noy disappeared in January 1992 after a long battle with drug and alcohol addictions. Presumed dead, a memorial service was held in his honour in Perth in December 1995. He is survived by his two sons Marlon and Quince, and his beautiful long-term partner, English cellist, Elizabeth Harrington.
Through the tireless efforts of Marlon Noy and Robert Wallace, the Noy Estate has painstakingly restored and continues to release limited editions of Todd's classic works, including Noy's semi-autobiographical, previously unreleased volume SWARMER.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 70 reviews
September 25, 2022
This was my first introduction into the curious literature of Todd Noy and the amazing body of work that he brought into the world.
I'd been travelling around South America and ended up in Chala, a small town on the Pacific Coast of Peru and as is often the case, my arrival coincided with the departure of another seasoned traveller. He was flying back to Europe the following day and so was keen to jettison any excess baggage that he had and amongst his trinkets was a battered first edition of 'Drago: On Mountains We Stand', which I noticed later had been signed by the author. I sometimes imagine that this wandering vagrant might actually have been Noy himself...but I guess that's too much to ask.
I didn't think much of it until the following day when I lay on the beach and dug out something to read. For the next few hours, I was propelled into the world of Drago, an exhilarating story of how Ivan Drago fairs after being defeated by Rocky. The style of the writing is a little off-putting at first (those familiar with Noy's style would find what he is trying to do with this work somewhat delicious) but you cannot help being drawn into and ultimately moved by a man who resurrects himself both physically and mentally and also restores the perception of himself to a wider audience, earning a respect and inner peace that had previously eluded him.
I left the beach with an extra spring in my step, as one only can after being inflated by a story of this nature. I wish I'd kept that book now as it would surely have fetched a decent premium amongst die-hard fans of Noy but I felt compelled to pass it on and so I did on my final night in Chala to a fresh-faced traveler who had just arrived to enjoy that idyllic paradise.
I only hope that beyond all odds, this tradition continues and that traveler after traveler arriving in Chala is introduced not only to the world of Drago but also to the work of Noy.
I am left with one burning question and hopefully, someone will pick up the torch and answer it for me. Whatever happened to Project A?
My exposure to Noy inspired me to embark on my own adventures in literary creation, which ultimately led me to write the novel BACK.
I'd been travelling around South America and ended up in Chala, a small town on the Pacific Coast of Peru and as is often the case, my arrival coincided with the departure of another seasoned traveller. He was flying back to Europe the following day and so was keen to jettison any excess baggage that he had and amongst his trinkets was a battered first edition of 'Drago: On Mountains We Stand', which I noticed later had been signed by the author. I sometimes imagine that this wandering vagrant might actually have been Noy himself...but I guess that's too much to ask.
I didn't think much of it until the following day when I lay on the beach and dug out something to read. For the next few hours, I was propelled into the world of Drago, an exhilarating story of how Ivan Drago fairs after being defeated by Rocky. The style of the writing is a little off-putting at first (those familiar with Noy's style would find what he is trying to do with this work somewhat delicious) but you cannot help being drawn into and ultimately moved by a man who resurrects himself both physically and mentally and also restores the perception of himself to a wider audience, earning a respect and inner peace that had previously eluded him.
I left the beach with an extra spring in my step, as one only can after being inflated by a story of this nature. I wish I'd kept that book now as it would surely have fetched a decent premium amongst die-hard fans of Noy but I felt compelled to pass it on and so I did on my final night in Chala to a fresh-faced traveler who had just arrived to enjoy that idyllic paradise.
I only hope that beyond all odds, this tradition continues and that traveler after traveler arriving in Chala is introduced not only to the world of Drago but also to the work of Noy.
I am left with one burning question and hopefully, someone will pick up the torch and answer it for me. Whatever happened to Project A?
My exposure to Noy inspired me to embark on my own adventures in literary creation, which ultimately led me to write the novel BACK.
February 1, 2019
This is a book that I have heard about for years, but I was never able to obtain a copy of it. Noy's writing ability is sometimes overshadowed by his amazing life and mysterious disappearance. People sometimes forget that the reason we care about those things is because first and foremost, Noy was a brilliant author. Drago: On Mountains We Stand is less than 100 pages long, yet it feels like am epic work of literature. Some thought that Noy was slumming it, writing about a character from a Rocky movie. Why would this acclaimed author debase himself so? He wasn't debasing himself. Instead he was elevating what was a one-note Russian villain into something great. The novel far surpasses the movie that introduced Drago, Rocky IV. I am so happy that the Noy Estate was able to find some copies of this book. I had almost given up hope in ever owning one. Do yourself a favor and get a copy while you still can. Read it. Then read it again. Then pass it along to a friend.
February 26, 2019
For years, through whispers in the upper echelons of international politics and diplomacy I heard about Drago: On Mountains We Stand (DOMWS). Unbeknownst to me at the time, DOMWS, which is affectionately referred to as Noy’s final masterpiece, had served to those in power as a blueprint to avoid pitfalls commonly associated with the high stakes game of world diplomacy and international intrigue.
Unfortunately, without having access to Noy’s work, I was unable to navigate the godforsaken path that awaited me. Although I survived the ordeal, the unrelenting barrage of earth-shattering experiences, which has brought lesser men to their graves, scarred me for life. Looking through the lens of DOMWS I now understand that my unbridled enthusiasm was the driving force that led to my downfall. Some chroniclers have found similarities between my story and the fables of Billy Mumphrey, but I assure you they are merely coincidental. Nevertheless, those scattered instances of keen observation, which can easily be mistaken for empathy, do bring a smile to my talon-scarred face. Albeit the sentiment is fleeting whereas the harrowing memories of those few years always manage to promptly remove all traces of happiness from my visage. Alas, like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun.
After enduring this tour de force I found myself facing a long battle with drug and alcohol addiction, much like the one that eventually ushered the demise of Noy himself; a man taken away from the World before his time. On the brink of facing the same fate, the mythical worthless vagrant saved me. Appearing like a saving angel, he placed a worn copy of DOMWS on top of the pile of coins I had been collecting with the intent of fetching myself a warm meal, but which in truth were destined to procure a hopefully unadulterated bottle of Don Viejito. I gazed upon the majestic cover of DOMWS and immediately felt a jolt of life run through my ailing veins. Reading the first words of DOMWS, which are now permanently etched in my brain, began my sobering process which concluded exactly 43 minutes later, coinciding with the last exhalation after uttering the last word in the book.
At that moment I became privy to all the secrets that had been passed on to just a select few of the world’s elite. Thanks to Noy I was able to overcome the self-imposed limitations placed upon my brain. I was now well versed in deciphering the high stakes game of world diplomacy and international intrigue. With this newfound confidence I was now able to steer clear from the menaces that plagued my unsuccessful attempt to triumph in the treacherous waters of international politics.
This review is nothing more than another vessel for the wisdom of Noy, and I share it with the world well aware of the risks it poses to my life, because ultimately that is what Noy would have wanted. As I do on to you, you shall do on to others and above all be excellent to each other.
Unfortunately, without having access to Noy’s work, I was unable to navigate the godforsaken path that awaited me. Although I survived the ordeal, the unrelenting barrage of earth-shattering experiences, which has brought lesser men to their graves, scarred me for life. Looking through the lens of DOMWS I now understand that my unbridled enthusiasm was the driving force that led to my downfall. Some chroniclers have found similarities between my story and the fables of Billy Mumphrey, but I assure you they are merely coincidental. Nevertheless, those scattered instances of keen observation, which can easily be mistaken for empathy, do bring a smile to my talon-scarred face. Albeit the sentiment is fleeting whereas the harrowing memories of those few years always manage to promptly remove all traces of happiness from my visage. Alas, like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun.
After enduring this tour de force I found myself facing a long battle with drug and alcohol addiction, much like the one that eventually ushered the demise of Noy himself; a man taken away from the World before his time. On the brink of facing the same fate, the mythical worthless vagrant saved me. Appearing like a saving angel, he placed a worn copy of DOMWS on top of the pile of coins I had been collecting with the intent of fetching myself a warm meal, but which in truth were destined to procure a hopefully unadulterated bottle of Don Viejito. I gazed upon the majestic cover of DOMWS and immediately felt a jolt of life run through my ailing veins. Reading the first words of DOMWS, which are now permanently etched in my brain, began my sobering process which concluded exactly 43 minutes later, coinciding with the last exhalation after uttering the last word in the book.
At that moment I became privy to all the secrets that had been passed on to just a select few of the world’s elite. Thanks to Noy I was able to overcome the self-imposed limitations placed upon my brain. I was now well versed in deciphering the high stakes game of world diplomacy and international intrigue. With this newfound confidence I was now able to steer clear from the menaces that plagued my unsuccessful attempt to triumph in the treacherous waters of international politics.
This review is nothing more than another vessel for the wisdom of Noy, and I share it with the world well aware of the risks it poses to my life, because ultimately that is what Noy would have wanted. As I do on to you, you shall do on to others and above all be excellent to each other.
July 22, 2020
Years ago while backpacking in Europe, a strange man left this book on my table at a cafe. When I called after him intending to return it, he had already vanished into the throng of people on the street. I will always wonder if he was the elusive Noy or just another follower who recognized the need to pass Noy's words along.
November 3, 2020
Less of a book....more of a recipe for a better way of living.
March 8, 2019
This isn’t so much a “review” as it is a plea for help...
I came close to securing an elusive copy of Drago: On Mountains we Stand. Close, but no Drago. I was finishing the late shift at the library I work at. I should digress...
For years I had heard the legend of Todd Noy in hushed whispers within the librarian community - Noy was more mystery than man. I tried to lobby the collections manager at my library to find a copy of Drago. Without me even mentioning the author, Joyce (the collections manager) screamed, “There is no Noy!” Such a violent response to my enquiry only heightened my curiosity. Who the hell is this Noy? I needed to know more.
Months passed, and still no Noy... After finishing my late shift at the library, located in the industrial Western suburbs of Melbourne, I walked slowly to the train station. At that time of night, the only people left on the streets were vagrants. I felt as though I shared more in common with them than my colleagues and friends. I saw in them a cold stare into the distance that suggested a mystery yet to be solved...
When the train finally arrived, it was just me and a vagrant in the carriage - the lights in the train flickering - symbolic of a dilapidated privatised system in a neoliberal world - a world not fit for Noy... I avoided making eye contact with the vagrant, but I could make out a vague mumbling that sounded like, “Need me toy, need me Toy. Where are ya Todd? Need me toy.” Two stops further down, another (presumably) vagrant hopped on the train, carrying a shopping bad in one hand, and a tattered red book in the other. The vagrant already on the train looked up, and shouted “There’s me Noy!” Suddenly it became clear that he had been mumbling “where’s me Noy?!” He ran at the other vagrant with a power and velocity Drago himself would admire, making a flying tackle, somehow perfectly finding the centre of gravity of his target, folding the man in two like a freshly ironed shirt. A scuffle ensued, the two men fighting tooth and nail for this tattered red book. In the melee, a page from the book flew into the air, and the tackler, finally overcoming his opponent, held the book aloft, screaming “I’ve got the bloody Noy!” Luckily for him, the train arrived at the next stop and he fled. A gust of wind flew in from outside as the train door closed, the page flying towards me, almost as if it was seeking refuge. The other vagrant slowly gathered himself, not noticing as I quickly shoved the single page into my pocket...
Despite being about 10kms from my home station, I was keen to get off the train as soon as possible - I felt that the vagrant would soon feel the aura of anxiety and guilt that surrounded me... I hopped off the train and pulled out the piece of paper, consumed with curiosity. Did I really have a piece of Noy? As the train pulled away, I heard a muffled scream and thumping - the vagrant saw me reading this page, joined the dots and it’s fair to say, wasn’t happy about a piece of Noy finding a new owner. The train pulled away and I was safe... for now... I must have read that page 50 times over the two hour walk home. I tripped on cracks in the pavement and walked into poles as I read that page over and over and over and over again. There was no question that this was the work of a genius. The myth was true - this was the work of a man who had seen it all, done it all, felt it all. This was the work of a man who’s universal truth was so real it just had to be fictionalised... this brings me to now. I’m about to walk into work. Please - I am desperate for a copy - of shit! Joyce is coming. Nobody at work can know about this lest I be stripped of my librarianship, but can I PLEASE get a copy of Dra
I came close to securing an elusive copy of Drago: On Mountains we Stand. Close, but no Drago. I was finishing the late shift at the library I work at. I should digress...
For years I had heard the legend of Todd Noy in hushed whispers within the librarian community - Noy was more mystery than man. I tried to lobby the collections manager at my library to find a copy of Drago. Without me even mentioning the author, Joyce (the collections manager) screamed, “There is no Noy!” Such a violent response to my enquiry only heightened my curiosity. Who the hell is this Noy? I needed to know more.
Months passed, and still no Noy... After finishing my late shift at the library, located in the industrial Western suburbs of Melbourne, I walked slowly to the train station. At that time of night, the only people left on the streets were vagrants. I felt as though I shared more in common with them than my colleagues and friends. I saw in them a cold stare into the distance that suggested a mystery yet to be solved...
When the train finally arrived, it was just me and a vagrant in the carriage - the lights in the train flickering - symbolic of a dilapidated privatised system in a neoliberal world - a world not fit for Noy... I avoided making eye contact with the vagrant, but I could make out a vague mumbling that sounded like, “Need me toy, need me Toy. Where are ya Todd? Need me toy.” Two stops further down, another (presumably) vagrant hopped on the train, carrying a shopping bad in one hand, and a tattered red book in the other. The vagrant already on the train looked up, and shouted “There’s me Noy!” Suddenly it became clear that he had been mumbling “where’s me Noy?!” He ran at the other vagrant with a power and velocity Drago himself would admire, making a flying tackle, somehow perfectly finding the centre of gravity of his target, folding the man in two like a freshly ironed shirt. A scuffle ensued, the two men fighting tooth and nail for this tattered red book. In the melee, a page from the book flew into the air, and the tackler, finally overcoming his opponent, held the book aloft, screaming “I’ve got the bloody Noy!” Luckily for him, the train arrived at the next stop and he fled. A gust of wind flew in from outside as the train door closed, the page flying towards me, almost as if it was seeking refuge. The other vagrant slowly gathered himself, not noticing as I quickly shoved the single page into my pocket...
Despite being about 10kms from my home station, I was keen to get off the train as soon as possible - I felt that the vagrant would soon feel the aura of anxiety and guilt that surrounded me... I hopped off the train and pulled out the piece of paper, consumed with curiosity. Did I really have a piece of Noy? As the train pulled away, I heard a muffled scream and thumping - the vagrant saw me reading this page, joined the dots and it’s fair to say, wasn’t happy about a piece of Noy finding a new owner. The train pulled away and I was safe... for now... I must have read that page 50 times over the two hour walk home. I tripped on cracks in the pavement and walked into poles as I read that page over and over and over and over again. There was no question that this was the work of a genius. The myth was true - this was the work of a man who had seen it all, done it all, felt it all. This was the work of a man who’s universal truth was so real it just had to be fictionalised... this brings me to now. I’m about to walk into work. Please - I am desperate for a copy - of shit! Joyce is coming. Nobody at work can know about this lest I be stripped of my librarianship, but can I PLEASE get a copy of Dra
February 21, 2019
It was the strangest thing.
I had been eleven days into hitching a ride with perhaps a dozen strangers, forming a dusty caravan across now forgotten Egyptian plains. Many had lost their shoes. The journey that had begun as an ordinary enough holiday had rapidly descended into a farrago of ill-equipped fellow travellers, horrid and unfortunate mistranslations and a general acceptance that Sod’s Law was now in full and brutal effect. Whatever could go wrong, would surely do so. Twice.
Then.
One evening by the campfire I found myself accosted by a slender reddish tome resting at eye level, a gnarled hand clasping it, half offering, half threatening to snatch away this unfamiliar object. The figure whose hand protruded into the glowing sphere of the firelight was tall, inscrutable in the shadow but somehow a presence begging my trust. The book on offer was Drago: On Mountains We Stand.
Dear reader, if I were to list the eight least likely things to improve my mood or indeed the rest of this journey, “reading a book” would have been number nine. Some notion caught my mind’s eye, however, and reaching for the book, pulling it gently from its human clasp brought both the hand, and thus also the face, into the dim light of the evening fire. Haggard, tired, yet determined, here was a dry and burnished face that told of two hundred journeys like the one on which I had found myself unwillingly led. It was a face one does not so much have, as wear.
With the face came also a voice, rasping, yet clear as a spring evening. “The valleys might whisper of rivers long forgotten”, the lonesome gent intoned, “but the mountains‘ dizzying heights sing a song for the ages.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Tired, confused and deflated I took the book which I have now since re-read tirelessly. Noy’s style and brevity are a perfect pairing. Soaringly epic, yet without the inconvenience of a lengthy epic poem. Short, yet not short on substance. It is what one would get if Dickens had invested in a proper and scrupulous editor, or if Milton had really applied himself. As absurd as it seems that a book set in the Rocky Universe should even approach passable literature, Noy’s work is in fact a complete triumph. This is only a surprise to those unfamiliar with House of Fuego or The Alabaster Wars. Attracting Noy’s skill to the Rocky franchise is the best thing to have happened to the Rocky Franchise since the character of Ivan Drago himself. It’s like scoring Shakespeare as a writer for Hallmark cards.
I looked up to see the figure disappear to the other side of the campfire. The unlit evening swallowed him out of view. I turned to my neighbour and inquired as to the gentleman’s name, that I may thank him.
“We thought he was with you,” came the haunting reply.
Eyes darted, as each of the dozen or so campfire dwellers attempted to shift the onus onto the other. No-one, it turned out, had the slightest idea who this man had been. We cast about behind us, confronted on all sides by the blackest of frozen desert night. We were entirely alone. My grip on the book tightened.
It was the strangest thing.
I had been eleven days into hitching a ride with perhaps a dozen strangers, forming a dusty caravan across now forgotten Egyptian plains. Many had lost their shoes. The journey that had begun as an ordinary enough holiday had rapidly descended into a farrago of ill-equipped fellow travellers, horrid and unfortunate mistranslations and a general acceptance that Sod’s Law was now in full and brutal effect. Whatever could go wrong, would surely do so. Twice.
Then.
One evening by the campfire I found myself accosted by a slender reddish tome resting at eye level, a gnarled hand clasping it, half offering, half threatening to snatch away this unfamiliar object. The figure whose hand protruded into the glowing sphere of the firelight was tall, inscrutable in the shadow but somehow a presence begging my trust. The book on offer was Drago: On Mountains We Stand.
Dear reader, if I were to list the eight least likely things to improve my mood or indeed the rest of this journey, “reading a book” would have been number nine. Some notion caught my mind’s eye, however, and reaching for the book, pulling it gently from its human clasp brought both the hand, and thus also the face, into the dim light of the evening fire. Haggard, tired, yet determined, here was a dry and burnished face that told of two hundred journeys like the one on which I had found myself unwillingly led. It was a face one does not so much have, as wear.
With the face came also a voice, rasping, yet clear as a spring evening. “The valleys might whisper of rivers long forgotten”, the lonesome gent intoned, “but the mountains‘ dizzying heights sing a song for the ages.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Tired, confused and deflated I took the book which I have now since re-read tirelessly. Noy’s style and brevity are a perfect pairing. Soaringly epic, yet without the inconvenience of a lengthy epic poem. Short, yet not short on substance. It is what one would get if Dickens had invested in a proper and scrupulous editor, or if Milton had really applied himself. As absurd as it seems that a book set in the Rocky Universe should even approach passable literature, Noy’s work is in fact a complete triumph. This is only a surprise to those unfamiliar with House of Fuego or The Alabaster Wars. Attracting Noy’s skill to the Rocky franchise is the best thing to have happened to the Rocky Franchise since the character of Ivan Drago himself. It’s like scoring Shakespeare as a writer for Hallmark cards.
I looked up to see the figure disappear to the other side of the campfire. The unlit evening swallowed him out of view. I turned to my neighbour and inquired as to the gentleman’s name, that I may thank him.
“We thought he was with you,” came the haunting reply.
Eyes darted, as each of the dozen or so campfire dwellers attempted to shift the onus onto the other. No-one, it turned out, had the slightest idea who this man had been. We cast about behind us, confronted on all sides by the blackest of frozen desert night. We were entirely alone. My grip on the book tightened.
It was the strangest thing.
January 4, 2019
This is a curious little book. It is only 87 pages, and is meant to answer the burning question: What happened to Ivan Drago? The copy that I read was given to me from the estate of Todd Noy. The estate manages a Facebook page promoting this book. I messaged them, asking how to acquire a copy of the book, and a few weeks later I received one via international mail. The book was originally published in 1989. The copy that I have is a newer edition, probably published in 2012, but I am not certain as there is no edition notice.
The title on the cover of this book is, DЯДGO OИ MOUИTДIИS ШЄ STДИD.
This book is completely absurd. Ivan Drago, after losing his boxing match against Rocky Balboa, becomes a man without a country. He wallows around in guilt over killing Apollo Creed and eventually returns to professional boxing, seeking out Balboa to assist him in training for a bout against some sort of superman creation of the Soviet military called Project A.
Third person and first person points of view randomly change, sometimes in the same paragraph. Many of the paragraphs are one sentence in length.
My favorite parts of this book are:
The author's acknowledgement that his work is a gross abuse of copyright.
When Clubber Lang promises to serve Drago with "pain cakes."
Having said that, this was the most excited I have been to read a book since the Deathly Hallows. It is totally a guilty pleasure book, and by guilty, I mean capital punishment guilty.
The title on the cover of this book is, DЯДGO OИ MOUИTДIИS ШЄ STДИD.
This book is completely absurd. Ivan Drago, after losing his boxing match against Rocky Balboa, becomes a man without a country. He wallows around in guilt over killing Apollo Creed and eventually returns to professional boxing, seeking out Balboa to assist him in training for a bout against some sort of superman creation of the Soviet military called Project A.
Third person and first person points of view randomly change, sometimes in the same paragraph. Many of the paragraphs are one sentence in length.
My favorite parts of this book are:
The author's acknowledgement that his work is a gross abuse of copyright.
When Clubber Lang promises to serve Drago with "pain cakes."
Having said that, this was the most excited I have been to read a book since the Deathly Hallows. It is totally a guilty pleasure book, and by guilty, I mean capital punishment guilty.
April 26, 2019
5 stars for the overall experience! Read the terrific Goodreads reviews. Listen to the "Finding Drago" podcast. Complete your journey by getting the book and truly enlightening yourself in the brilliance of Todd Noy!
July 29, 2019
Feels cherished after reading that. <3
October 9, 2022
I was on a deep field traverse in Antarctica, when my team was hit by a brutal blizzard. With winds exceeding 200km/hr and visibility dropping to less than a metre, I was quickly disorientated and loss contact with my team. As per my training, I hunkered down in the snow waiting for the winds to ease. Without any electronic equipment and unable to raise my colleagues over the howling winds, this was a very dangerous situation and I was scared for how I would make it out alive. After twelve hours shivering on the ground, the winds ease enough for me to try to find my colleagues. I started out in the direction I last saw them. With the bleak and desolate landscape, there are no landmarks for navigation. I quickly became more disorientated and ended up travelling in circles. I began considering how long it would take me to freeze to death.
Off in the distance I see a piece of wood sticking out of the snow. I rush towards this sign of human activity on this bleak ice block. As I approach this piece of wood turns out to be a whole hut buried in the snow. I rush inside to seek shelter from the extreme weather. This is not just any hut, but Douglas Mawson's hut from his 1912 expedition. In one hundred years, it has been damaged and snow has ingressed inside, but it offers comforting relief from the blizzard. Starving, I eye off a wooden crate. Inside is canned food still preserved in the natural Antarctic refrigeration.
Nestled inside, there is a one hundred year old crate with a pristine copy of Todd Noy's masterpiece Drago: On Mountains We Stand inside. I have no idea how this novel ended up here especially considering it's much later publication date than the crate. After consuming the food, I turned my eye to the book. I read the book cover to cover in a single seating. Prior to reading I was exhausted and pushed to the limits of survival. After reading I was rejuvenated and felt this strange warm glow, I felt cherished. Buoyed by my new attitude, I set out from the hut. With a clear head, I set a new plan navigating using the natural elements including the sun position. I soon located our vehicle tracks and then our group.
I can honestly say this book is a masterpiece and saved my life.
Off in the distance I see a piece of wood sticking out of the snow. I rush towards this sign of human activity on this bleak ice block. As I approach this piece of wood turns out to be a whole hut buried in the snow. I rush inside to seek shelter from the extreme weather. This is not just any hut, but Douglas Mawson's hut from his 1912 expedition. In one hundred years, it has been damaged and snow has ingressed inside, but it offers comforting relief from the blizzard. Starving, I eye off a wooden crate. Inside is canned food still preserved in the natural Antarctic refrigeration.
Nestled inside, there is a one hundred year old crate with a pristine copy of Todd Noy's masterpiece Drago: On Mountains We Stand inside. I have no idea how this novel ended up here especially considering it's much later publication date than the crate. After consuming the food, I turned my eye to the book. I read the book cover to cover in a single seating. Prior to reading I was exhausted and pushed to the limits of survival. After reading I was rejuvenated and felt this strange warm glow, I felt cherished. Buoyed by my new attitude, I set out from the hut. With a clear head, I set a new plan navigating using the natural elements including the sun position. I soon located our vehicle tracks and then our group.
I can honestly say this book is a masterpiece and saved my life.
April 9, 2019
For years I had heard about The Noy. I never knew a lot about him but whispers about him were abundant. I once asked my Uncle, a historian about The Noy and he took told me in the sternest of voices to never mention him again, or else he would have to tell my parents. The more I found out about Noy, the less and less I understood, that was the case for many years. Until I took a trip to the East Coast.
It was a late night in rural Maine, I was sitting on a park bench, pondering about existence, religion, etc. I decided to get up and walk and I stepped on something. Startled, I look at my right foot, and underneath it is a blood-red manuscript. I pick it up, the stain of my footprint across the cover, I look at this book and on the cover, I see the name that had eluded me for so long: Todd Noy. I immediately dart back to the bench I had left mere seconds ago and I start reading. I read and read, those 87 magical pages were the most excellent pieces of writing I had ever witnessed. Noy's words put Shakespeare to shame, they made Poe look like a middle schooler, they showed me how writing was meant to be done. I read through that book many times over, I lost count and I continued to read it until the sun rose.
When the sun had risen, I decided that I needed to get back to my hotel before my friends woke up and got worried. I immediately brought the book with me but I involuntarily paused when I step over the place where I had picked it up. I needed to leave it, I needed it to be passed on, the world needed to read the final work of The Noy. I left it on the ground where I found it. Every day I hope that another person reads Noy's work and that I, in some minute way helped contribute to the spread of Noy.
It was a late night in rural Maine, I was sitting on a park bench, pondering about existence, religion, etc. I decided to get up and walk and I stepped on something. Startled, I look at my right foot, and underneath it is a blood-red manuscript. I pick it up, the stain of my footprint across the cover, I look at this book and on the cover, I see the name that had eluded me for so long: Todd Noy. I immediately dart back to the bench I had left mere seconds ago and I start reading. I read and read, those 87 magical pages were the most excellent pieces of writing I had ever witnessed. Noy's words put Shakespeare to shame, they made Poe look like a middle schooler, they showed me how writing was meant to be done. I read through that book many times over, I lost count and I continued to read it until the sun rose.
When the sun had risen, I decided that I needed to get back to my hotel before my friends woke up and got worried. I immediately brought the book with me but I involuntarily paused when I step over the place where I had picked it up. I needed to leave it, I needed it to be passed on, the world needed to read the final work of The Noy. I left it on the ground where I found it. Every day I hope that another person reads Noy's work and that I, in some minute way helped contribute to the spread of Noy.
January 24, 2014
I got the book (and the t-shirt) today and read it in one sitting. It's a fantastic story, with no filler at all.
I thought the book kept the characters accurate to the movie versions really well, including Rocky's speech patterns and Drago's intense focus.
It'd be even better if there was a chance for the author to write a full trilogy of this, starting with Ivan's fall and early fights, the second book on his match with Clubber Lang, and the third about his redemption and epilogue. Unfortunately, if the author is indeed deceased, we won't have that, unless someone else is willing to put the value of a good story over the legal copyright issues.
All up, well worth the read. I hope Dolph Lundgren has his copy already, and I'd like to think he'd enjoy it.
I thought the book kept the characters accurate to the movie versions really well, including Rocky's speech patterns and Drago's intense focus.
It'd be even better if there was a chance for the author to write a full trilogy of this, starting with Ivan's fall and early fights, the second book on his match with Clubber Lang, and the third about his redemption and epilogue. Unfortunately, if the author is indeed deceased, we won't have that, unless someone else is willing to put the value of a good story over the legal copyright issues.
All up, well worth the read. I hope Dolph Lundgren has his copy already, and I'd like to think he'd enjoy it.
April 17, 2021
This Easter weekend past I undertook a journey. I live in Canberra Australia and the only friend that I have lives in Australia (we are both from England, UK) lives in a small town in the outback called Wilcannia. He has a family so cannot visit me, so I decided to undertake the perilous journey to him on public transport. Little did I know that this would lead to me discovering the work of Noy.
The journey took many days and a variety of transport. On my first evening I stopped for rest in a town called Orange. After touring the town and visiting many of its pubs a strange looking man dressed in rags struck up conversation with me in a small crevasse of a smoking area. I had spent all day travelling and drawing the choreography for dance moves for a production I am involved in about England's Barmy Army, ahead of a short tour my team and I are planning to coincide with the Ashes at the end of the year. No one else had spoken to me all day, so I was grateful for the interaction.
He asked me who I was and where I was going, but I got the impression that he already knew somehow. He was very insistent that on my way north I get off the train at a town called Geurie. I explained that I couldn't do such a thing as I would be on the only train of the day and could not afford to delay my visit another day. Despite having such a calm and friendly demeanour, he flew in to an instant rage, pushing past me and telling me that I would be a fool to ignore his advice, visiting this town of Geurie would enrichen my life. Just like that he was gone and I was left alone... Intrigued, but certain that I would not be ruining my carefully coordinated plan.
The next day was Easter Friday and to my horror nowhere in Orange was open; not even the big supermarkets. No one had warned me that I would need to bring a packed lunch. I spent the two hours after checking out of my hotel practicing my dance routines in the park before heading to the station, having completely forgotten about my odd interaction during my drunken night out. Sadly none of the moves seemed to be coming together. The train was on time, which was peculiar as every other leg of my journey had been delayed.
As the train headed north I started to feel something inside. I am not an emotional man, so I initially put it down to a delayed hangover. Yet the feeling grew over the next hour or so, until I felt like I was buzzing with energy. The train slowed down at the next station as this feeling began to overwhelm me and I looked up at the name of the station. Geurie. I instantly knew what I must do and picked up my bag and ran for the door. I got off, not knowing what to expect. There was nothing and no one there to meet me. The train moved on and the magical feeling that I had disappeared, replaced by a cold sickness. My attempts to chase the train down were hampered by the size of my bag and being tired from two hours of dancing. All of a sudden I realised that I was alone in this shanty town, with no train for another 24 hours and nowhere to stay. All because I had listened to this man of the street.
I gathered myself and called my friend, lying to him that a drug addict had chased me off of the train. He was angry but told me that he could drive to Dubbo (the next town up) the next day. As a penance for my foolishness I was stuck in Geurie.
The town itself consisted of a pub, a shop and a petrol station, amid dozens of shanty houses. As I walked around, waiting for opening time at the pub the feeling of magic slowly came back to me. At first I tried to ignore it, but something was changing inside of me. Oddly, despite not being on google maps, I happened across another pub that was already open. I bought myself a drink and went to sit in a cranny in the smoking area. It was not long until others joined me.
A man with the kindest eyes I have ever beheld sat down opposite me and asked if I was lost. Yes, I replied. Both spiritually and geographically. I explained what had happened, what has been happening in my life (my current long-term partner has recently told me that she cannot deal with my negativity and dancing and is considering ending the relationship) and my foolish decision to leave the train based on the words of a stranger. As I spoke that part of my story to him he seemed to beam with a priestliness that made me feel nourished.
For the first time, someone listened. I instantly felt better. He gave me some advice and my soul cried out for more. Instead, he offered me a bed for the night. By chance he was driving to Wilcannia the next day. Something magic had happened. I accepted his offer of kindness and asked him why someone like him - an untidy man - would bestow this act upon me. He simply smiled and said that I was 'in Noy country now, boy'. I had no idea what he meant, and assumed that it was a local saying.
We continued to drink and talk about our lives, although I must admit that I dominated the conversation and I can't remember much of what he was saying, although we spoke at length about Rocky Four of all things. My new guardian angel told me his name was Galia, and he even bought me food, a delicious pastry-based dish called something like a pitchaninny pie. At some point in the evening, an unseemly, smelly man sat down in the nook at the table next to us. I didn't think much of him, but I kept hearing his mumbles suddenly explode for a few seconds, shouting something about someone taking his boy 'offa' him and a bike. As the night progressed these ramblings and explosions continued, until suddenly he stood on his chair and proclaimed 'friends, I will now perform Todd Noy's Ochre Dyke!'
No sooner had he done this, the pub landlord, a strange man who had treated me with suspicion when I first walked in and looked at the same charcoal drawing of a handsome man that covered every wall in the pub, ran out in to the smoking area and picked up what I can only describe as the vagrant, carried him away and ejected him from the pub. On their way out the landlord was screaming 'not in front of strangers, not in front of the outsider!'.
As this all happened, something clicked inside my brain. I had once read a review of a book by an author of the same name on this very website, that had apparently changed the reviewer's life, but my attempts to find the book had been futile. Was this the same Todd Noy? Galia watched my reactions as I had my epiphany and smiled to me. 'Go after him, but remember, you must find Wallace.'
I ran through the pub, out of the front door and chased after the vagrant. I spotted him trying to board a three-wheeled bicycle (not a trike). I managed to get my foot in the door as he tried to slam it and pleaded with him to tell me about Noy and perform this Dyke ritual for me. I was convinced it would help my choreography. He kept screaming something about Noy, but eventually he relented.
He produced a small bucket and climbed on top of it. He then started Ochre Dyke. As he spoke those words, the culmination of my journey, my frustrations, this kingdom of ruffian yet kindly men, the magic inside of me, it somehow all came together in an overwhelming way. Was I transcending to another world? I felt... cultivated? As the performance drew to a close I was vanquished and felt my senses peak and then drop to nothing as a blackness took over me.
The next thing I knew I came to, standing in the bright Australian sun, holding my bag. I span around. I was outside Wilcannia station. Had the night before been real? How did I get there? Was the pie I ate spiked with something and Galia kindly drove me asleep to my destination? I called my friend and told him that I was at the station as I had managed to get a lift. He told me to wait 15 minutes while he drove down, and I was lucky as he was just about to leave to drive to Dubbo for me.
As I sat there waiting, running over the events of the previous night in my head, I was glowing with energy and inspiration. I fished out my notebook to start sketching choreography that was waiting to pour out of me, but when I opened it, every single page was filled with drawings. My drawings. I almost vomited when I came across one of our Jonathan Trott actor doing the sprinkler dance, something that I had been trying to get right for months. Here it was. Perfect. Yet I had no memory of it at all.
My friend remarked that I seemed like a better version of myself almost as soon as I got into his large car. I didn't tell him of my experiences for fear of scaring him. Aside from contacting the Noy Estate to seek understanding of what happened to me, this is the first time that I have shared my story. On the way back to Canberra the train south sadly did not stop at Geurie, but as it went past, it looked different. I could see people walking on the road who were dressed normally and driving cars. Houses had roofs. Had I imagined this all?
On my journey I drew more dances and ingested everything that I had drawn during my missing hours. Once dance confused me. It did not appear to be about cricket, but instead pugilism. The title written down at the top of the page is 'On Mountains We Stand'. I had no idea what it meant, it certainly wasn't a cricket phrase, but shortly after arriving back in Canberra, this book arrived, in a golden envelope. No address. Just my name.
This book, the Noy estate, and my journey into Noy's Country For Old Men has saved my life. It is just so sad that Todd Noy is no longer with us to see the positive effect that his work has on so many people. Genius is never truly appreciated in its lifetime. Never has this been truer, or indeed sadder, than in the case of Todd Noy.
The journey took many days and a variety of transport. On my first evening I stopped for rest in a town called Orange. After touring the town and visiting many of its pubs a strange looking man dressed in rags struck up conversation with me in a small crevasse of a smoking area. I had spent all day travelling and drawing the choreography for dance moves for a production I am involved in about England's Barmy Army, ahead of a short tour my team and I are planning to coincide with the Ashes at the end of the year. No one else had spoken to me all day, so I was grateful for the interaction.
He asked me who I was and where I was going, but I got the impression that he already knew somehow. He was very insistent that on my way north I get off the train at a town called Geurie. I explained that I couldn't do such a thing as I would be on the only train of the day and could not afford to delay my visit another day. Despite having such a calm and friendly demeanour, he flew in to an instant rage, pushing past me and telling me that I would be a fool to ignore his advice, visiting this town of Geurie would enrichen my life. Just like that he was gone and I was left alone... Intrigued, but certain that I would not be ruining my carefully coordinated plan.
The next day was Easter Friday and to my horror nowhere in Orange was open; not even the big supermarkets. No one had warned me that I would need to bring a packed lunch. I spent the two hours after checking out of my hotel practicing my dance routines in the park before heading to the station, having completely forgotten about my odd interaction during my drunken night out. Sadly none of the moves seemed to be coming together. The train was on time, which was peculiar as every other leg of my journey had been delayed.
As the train headed north I started to feel something inside. I am not an emotional man, so I initially put it down to a delayed hangover. Yet the feeling grew over the next hour or so, until I felt like I was buzzing with energy. The train slowed down at the next station as this feeling began to overwhelm me and I looked up at the name of the station. Geurie. I instantly knew what I must do and picked up my bag and ran for the door. I got off, not knowing what to expect. There was nothing and no one there to meet me. The train moved on and the magical feeling that I had disappeared, replaced by a cold sickness. My attempts to chase the train down were hampered by the size of my bag and being tired from two hours of dancing. All of a sudden I realised that I was alone in this shanty town, with no train for another 24 hours and nowhere to stay. All because I had listened to this man of the street.
I gathered myself and called my friend, lying to him that a drug addict had chased me off of the train. He was angry but told me that he could drive to Dubbo (the next town up) the next day. As a penance for my foolishness I was stuck in Geurie.
The town itself consisted of a pub, a shop and a petrol station, amid dozens of shanty houses. As I walked around, waiting for opening time at the pub the feeling of magic slowly came back to me. At first I tried to ignore it, but something was changing inside of me. Oddly, despite not being on google maps, I happened across another pub that was already open. I bought myself a drink and went to sit in a cranny in the smoking area. It was not long until others joined me.
A man with the kindest eyes I have ever beheld sat down opposite me and asked if I was lost. Yes, I replied. Both spiritually and geographically. I explained what had happened, what has been happening in my life (my current long-term partner has recently told me that she cannot deal with my negativity and dancing and is considering ending the relationship) and my foolish decision to leave the train based on the words of a stranger. As I spoke that part of my story to him he seemed to beam with a priestliness that made me feel nourished.
For the first time, someone listened. I instantly felt better. He gave me some advice and my soul cried out for more. Instead, he offered me a bed for the night. By chance he was driving to Wilcannia the next day. Something magic had happened. I accepted his offer of kindness and asked him why someone like him - an untidy man - would bestow this act upon me. He simply smiled and said that I was 'in Noy country now, boy'. I had no idea what he meant, and assumed that it was a local saying.
We continued to drink and talk about our lives, although I must admit that I dominated the conversation and I can't remember much of what he was saying, although we spoke at length about Rocky Four of all things. My new guardian angel told me his name was Galia, and he even bought me food, a delicious pastry-based dish called something like a pitchaninny pie. At some point in the evening, an unseemly, smelly man sat down in the nook at the table next to us. I didn't think much of him, but I kept hearing his mumbles suddenly explode for a few seconds, shouting something about someone taking his boy 'offa' him and a bike. As the night progressed these ramblings and explosions continued, until suddenly he stood on his chair and proclaimed 'friends, I will now perform Todd Noy's Ochre Dyke!'
No sooner had he done this, the pub landlord, a strange man who had treated me with suspicion when I first walked in and looked at the same charcoal drawing of a handsome man that covered every wall in the pub, ran out in to the smoking area and picked up what I can only describe as the vagrant, carried him away and ejected him from the pub. On their way out the landlord was screaming 'not in front of strangers, not in front of the outsider!'.
As this all happened, something clicked inside my brain. I had once read a review of a book by an author of the same name on this very website, that had apparently changed the reviewer's life, but my attempts to find the book had been futile. Was this the same Todd Noy? Galia watched my reactions as I had my epiphany and smiled to me. 'Go after him, but remember, you must find Wallace.'
I ran through the pub, out of the front door and chased after the vagrant. I spotted him trying to board a three-wheeled bicycle (not a trike). I managed to get my foot in the door as he tried to slam it and pleaded with him to tell me about Noy and perform this Dyke ritual for me. I was convinced it would help my choreography. He kept screaming something about Noy, but eventually he relented.
He produced a small bucket and climbed on top of it. He then started Ochre Dyke. As he spoke those words, the culmination of my journey, my frustrations, this kingdom of ruffian yet kindly men, the magic inside of me, it somehow all came together in an overwhelming way. Was I transcending to another world? I felt... cultivated? As the performance drew to a close I was vanquished and felt my senses peak and then drop to nothing as a blackness took over me.
The next thing I knew I came to, standing in the bright Australian sun, holding my bag. I span around. I was outside Wilcannia station. Had the night before been real? How did I get there? Was the pie I ate spiked with something and Galia kindly drove me asleep to my destination? I called my friend and told him that I was at the station as I had managed to get a lift. He told me to wait 15 minutes while he drove down, and I was lucky as he was just about to leave to drive to Dubbo for me.
As I sat there waiting, running over the events of the previous night in my head, I was glowing with energy and inspiration. I fished out my notebook to start sketching choreography that was waiting to pour out of me, but when I opened it, every single page was filled with drawings. My drawings. I almost vomited when I came across one of our Jonathan Trott actor doing the sprinkler dance, something that I had been trying to get right for months. Here it was. Perfect. Yet I had no memory of it at all.
My friend remarked that I seemed like a better version of myself almost as soon as I got into his large car. I didn't tell him of my experiences for fear of scaring him. Aside from contacting the Noy Estate to seek understanding of what happened to me, this is the first time that I have shared my story. On the way back to Canberra the train south sadly did not stop at Geurie, but as it went past, it looked different. I could see people walking on the road who were dressed normally and driving cars. Houses had roofs. Had I imagined this all?
On my journey I drew more dances and ingested everything that I had drawn during my missing hours. Once dance confused me. It did not appear to be about cricket, but instead pugilism. The title written down at the top of the page is 'On Mountains We Stand'. I had no idea what it meant, it certainly wasn't a cricket phrase, but shortly after arriving back in Canberra, this book arrived, in a golden envelope. No address. Just my name.
This book, the Noy estate, and my journey into Noy's Country For Old Men has saved my life. It is just so sad that Todd Noy is no longer with us to see the positive effect that his work has on so many people. Genius is never truly appreciated in its lifetime. Never has this been truer, or indeed sadder, than in the case of Todd Noy.
February 25, 2019
My personal copy of Drago: On Mountains We Stand - battered and bruised yet unbroken (much like Ivan Drago himself at the conclusion of Rocky IV) - came to me some four years ago this summer, whilst I was first backpacking through Europe.
A Swedish youth of some 24 years who had converted to Buddhism no more than six months earlier gifted it to me as we both took refuge from a heavy and unexpected torrent under the eaves of a small villa just outside of Aquino, Italy. He had been studying classical guitar at the Berlin University of the Arts - one of the best, if he was to be believed - until tragedy struck when both his fiancee and step-mother were buried in an avalanche during a tobogganing trip to Vallnord in Andorra. For a year and a half the youth's grief drove him to become embroiled in prostitution, drugs, as well as a multitude of petty criminal activities.
He offered me his copy of the book, which he had received in exchange for a forged certificate in animal husbandry, after I related some of my own difficulties and divulged how my carry-on luggage had accidentally been taken by a con tiki tourist and not returned until almost 36 hours later.
Before a sudden departure he uttered the only words that have every meant anything to me: “If I can change… and you can change… EVERYBODY can change.”
I have acquired and passed on copies of Drago on six continents, and will continue to recommend it as a salve to many of life's existential ills. Five stars (all of which, like Noy, burn twice as brightly, if only for half as long).
A Swedish youth of some 24 years who had converted to Buddhism no more than six months earlier gifted it to me as we both took refuge from a heavy and unexpected torrent under the eaves of a small villa just outside of Aquino, Italy. He had been studying classical guitar at the Berlin University of the Arts - one of the best, if he was to be believed - until tragedy struck when both his fiancee and step-mother were buried in an avalanche during a tobogganing trip to Vallnord in Andorra. For a year and a half the youth's grief drove him to become embroiled in prostitution, drugs, as well as a multitude of petty criminal activities.
He offered me his copy of the book, which he had received in exchange for a forged certificate in animal husbandry, after I related some of my own difficulties and divulged how my carry-on luggage had accidentally been taken by a con tiki tourist and not returned until almost 36 hours later.
Before a sudden departure he uttered the only words that have every meant anything to me: “If I can change… and you can change… EVERYBODY can change.”
I have acquired and passed on copies of Drago on six continents, and will continue to recommend it as a salve to many of life's existential ills. Five stars (all of which, like Noy, burn twice as brightly, if only for half as long).
December 30, 2020
For years, I'd heard of Noy and his huge catalogue of masterpieces. I'll say it, I was daunted. From small clippings I'd read online, and after hearing Okre Dyke read to me at a school camp when I was younger, his writing style just seemed a tad overwhelming.
However, as I was passing the Sydney streets the other day, a rogue homeless man locked eyes with me for a second. In that moment we had an instant understanding. He raised his hand and offered me to come closer. I cautiously did. Promptly, he presented me with the red tome, of which now I am so familiar.
'Take it," he whispered, "It is time."
I snatched the book from his worn, tiny hands and ran for minutes, before having the courage to look down at the artefact in my arms. With electrifying awe, I read the title: Drago: On Mountains We Stand.
I have read the book several times already, and as promised, it has changed my life. I no longer possess fear of my fellow man, I am rid of my reservations on performing perilous acts, I can now perform stunning feats of strength with ease. I am whole.
Thank you Noy.
I will bestow your gift to the next person who needs it.
However, as I was passing the Sydney streets the other day, a rogue homeless man locked eyes with me for a second. In that moment we had an instant understanding. He raised his hand and offered me to come closer. I cautiously did. Promptly, he presented me with the red tome, of which now I am so familiar.
'Take it," he whispered, "It is time."
I snatched the book from his worn, tiny hands and ran for minutes, before having the courage to look down at the artefact in my arms. With electrifying awe, I read the title: Drago: On Mountains We Stand.
I have read the book several times already, and as promised, it has changed my life. I no longer possess fear of my fellow man, I am rid of my reservations on performing perilous acts, I can now perform stunning feats of strength with ease. I am whole.
Thank you Noy.
I will bestow your gift to the next person who needs it.
May 6, 2021
What can I say about this book that hasn't already been said?
It changed my life in such a deep and resonant way that nothing can ever come close in terms of impact.
I don't think I would have managed to get through my high school years or awkward 20's if I didn't have the inspiring story of the mighty Drago to come home to each night and remind me that no matter how hard things are, there's always a way to pull yourself up and rise above it.
I wouldn't be the man I was today without it and I'm eternally grateful to Mr Noy for the work he's done and I hope wherever he is that he's alive and well or that at the very least he spent his final days knowing how significant his work has been to me and so many others.
It changed my life in such a deep and resonant way that nothing can ever come close in terms of impact.
I don't think I would have managed to get through my high school years or awkward 20's if I didn't have the inspiring story of the mighty Drago to come home to each night and remind me that no matter how hard things are, there's always a way to pull yourself up and rise above it.
I wouldn't be the man I was today without it and I'm eternally grateful to Mr Noy for the work he's done and I hope wherever he is that he's alive and well or that at the very least he spent his final days knowing how significant his work has been to me and so many others.
September 10, 2019
This book seriously changed my outlook on life. After a long journey through the Iberian peninsulia, I stumbled across a small bar/cafe which sold quarter litres of Spanish beer. After less than a half dozen of these beautiful cervezas, a man in neutral attire approached me and my wife with tales of grandeur and hyperbole. I hereafter indulged in his preachings and discussed the deep philsophies of spirulina with this vagrant, before he handed me a copy of "Drago: On Mountains We Stand". What more is there to say other than "Sonny, you are a good man but I no understand any of your words."
A WORK OF GENIUS
A WORK OF GENIUS
October 5, 2021
This book is a little gem. It’s not about boxing, of course; it’s about the indomitable human spirit. We see the redemption of both Drago and Sonny, a nice short appearance by the Italian Stallion and a great homage to Apollo Creed. I cheered when Project A got the dart in his neck.
I read a first edition copy. Noy needs a better proofreader because at times the typos were distracting. But surely a book like this will have had several printings and those minor errors will have been corrected.
Can’t wait for the movie!
I read a first edition copy. Noy needs a better proofreader because at times the typos were distracting. But surely a book like this will have had several printings and those minor errors will have been corrected.
Can’t wait for the movie!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 7, 2019
This book is exciting, inspirational and profound. I found this book when I was metal detecting for treasure in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. It was wrapped in a bag with camel skin, four small pieces of gold and a bottle of tawny port. I read the book in a single sitting and upon completion, decided to pursue a new path in life - one that has provided me with a deep happiness that had never felt before.
Todd Noy, thank you for your contribution to the world. I appreciate you.
Todd Noy, thank you for your contribution to the world. I appreciate you.
March 7, 2019
Drago: On Mountains we Stand is an beautiful piece of work that gives more character development to Ivan Drago than either Rocky IV or CREED 2 ever could. The journey and hardships he faces are emotionally challenging to both the character and the reader --there were a few moments where I had to place the book down to spend 5-10 minutes weeping uncontrollably. This story is about hardships and how we must overcome them; an excellent message.
December 20, 2019
I was given this book by a man who although I've known for some time, remains a mysterious giant. In my first introduction to the work of Noy, I found myself moved in great swathes. From tears of ecstasy to crippling sadness, Noy has found a route to the soul through his quill.
If ever I find myself at a crossroads in life, I will think back on Noy's masterpiece & find my way forward, surefooted and confident.
"with tremendous effort, Drago grabs his hand."
If ever I find myself at a crossroads in life, I will think back on Noy's masterpiece & find my way forward, surefooted and confident.
"with tremendous effort, Drago grabs his hand."
January 26, 2021
Gifted to me by a friend who introduced me to the works of Noy, Drago: On Mountains We Stand is nothing short of a masterpiece. It is my first step into the body of work from the legendary Todd Noy and it does not disappoint. Now if only I can get my hands on a copy of Swarmer, or perhaps the fabled Alabaster Wars.
August 21, 2013
I loved the book. Its a bit short but was really well written and fun to read. I loved the ending and the way it progressed, and I would reccomend it to everyone who liked Ivan Drago from the movie. 5/5!
July 17, 2020
Absolutely fantastic book love it so much have read it again and again. Love how it explains Dragos childhood and upbringing as well as what happens to him after Balboa defeating him. Only problem with this book is its just too short I want more 😂
June 12, 2019
In 1988, I was a high school freshman whose athletic career had just been torpedoed by a stick to the eye during a hockey game. I was in the hospital in Washington DC, both eyes bandaged for nine days in the hopes that the pressure in my eyes would go down and I would be able to keep my eyesight. To keep from dying of boredom, my mom would bring in movies and our VCR to play in the hospital room, so I could picture the scenes in my head as the dialogue played onscreen. Of course, Rocky IV was one of those movies. I have to admit that as a teenager who just had his dreams of playing for the Washington Capitals dashed forever, I was constantly in a foul mood, short with the hospital staff and downright surly with my parents and other visitors.
One night, after my parents went home, someone came into my room. I assumed it was one of the doctors or nurses, but instead a new voice asked, "Did you ever think about what happened to Ivan Drago after Rocky IV ended?" Before I could begin to respond, he added "I wrote a book. I think it will help you heal, both in body and soul."
(Those who have met Todd Noy will appreciate that he got right to the point without wasting time on smalltalk.)
I had been half asleep, so was in a more foul mood than usual. "That's great. In case you hadn't noticed, I can't see right now, much less read anything."
I heard a chair pulling up. I smelled a combination of cigars, curry and stale beer, and clothing that clearly hadn't been washed in months but smelled mainly of autumn.
"I'll read it to you," he said.
Reader, if only I had thought to fumble around for my tape recorder and recorded over the 1980s mix tape that it contained. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his voice caress the words, rising to a crescendo during the pivotal scenes and dropping to a near-whisper at other times, forcing me to painfully crane my neck against the hospital tubing to get closer to not miss a syllable. It seemed like he was there for days -- time had no meaning. I know that logically it must have just been couple of hours, but you'll never be able to convince me that he didn't somehow bend the fabric of space and time, so vivid were the scenes in my head.
Finally, heartbreakingly, he got to the final scene. I heard the chair scrape as he got up.
"I'll leave this for you," he said.
I was so overwhelmed. I didn't know what I could possibly say to express my thanks. And then, I heard the door open, and to my eternal shame my chance was gone.
I never saw his face, and I left the hospital a few days later without hearing from him again. But the book remains one of my treasured possessions.
One night, after my parents went home, someone came into my room. I assumed it was one of the doctors or nurses, but instead a new voice asked, "Did you ever think about what happened to Ivan Drago after Rocky IV ended?" Before I could begin to respond, he added "I wrote a book. I think it will help you heal, both in body and soul."
(Those who have met Todd Noy will appreciate that he got right to the point without wasting time on smalltalk.)
I had been half asleep, so was in a more foul mood than usual. "That's great. In case you hadn't noticed, I can't see right now, much less read anything."
I heard a chair pulling up. I smelled a combination of cigars, curry and stale beer, and clothing that clearly hadn't been washed in months but smelled mainly of autumn.
"I'll read it to you," he said.
Reader, if only I had thought to fumble around for my tape recorder and recorded over the 1980s mix tape that it contained. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his voice caress the words, rising to a crescendo during the pivotal scenes and dropping to a near-whisper at other times, forcing me to painfully crane my neck against the hospital tubing to get closer to not miss a syllable. It seemed like he was there for days -- time had no meaning. I know that logically it must have just been couple of hours, but you'll never be able to convince me that he didn't somehow bend the fabric of space and time, so vivid were the scenes in my head.
Finally, heartbreakingly, he got to the final scene. I heard the chair scrape as he got up.
"I'll leave this for you," he said.
I was so overwhelmed. I didn't know what I could possibly say to express my thanks. And then, I heard the door open, and to my eternal shame my chance was gone.
I never saw his face, and I left the hospital a few days later without hearing from him again. But the book remains one of my treasured possessions.
February 15, 2022
Seven years ago I was travelling through the municipality of Tamoi in Brunei when I stopped at a small open-air bar to rest after a long day's journey. As I rested I was approached by a weary old traveller, who sat next to me. I couldn't see his face beneath a raggedy straw hat which he wore atop his head, but I could tell that he was an aging man, well past his forties. His skin was stretched and bleached from years in the hot sun, and his hands were slightly gnarled at the knuckle. He asked me where I was from. I answered, Canada. He nodded his head slightly and returned to the glass of tonic he had carried over to the counter. Analyzing his visage I spied an old and battered paperback poking out from his back pant pocket. The book was so thin that the pages practically morphed into his pants, leaving only the slightest indication of its presence. I only recognized it on account of the distinct red colouring that adorned the cover and the vague yellow lettering of the two letters "DR", but curiously the "R" was backwards. The old man noticed my curiosity and asked if I had brought any literature with me, I shook my head and responded that I had only brought one copy of Katie Price's "Being Jordan". He shook his head mournfully and handed me the book from his pocket. I insisted that I couldn't accept such a kingly gift, but he wouldn't listen and told me that he was merely passing on a favor and that he hoped I too would one day pass this book into the hands of another ragged and weary traveler who was as yet unaware of Ivan Drago's life story. After the old man handed me the book I opened it and saw that this was not just any old copy, but one autographed by the author himself. Looking up in disbelief I only then noticed that the old man had left the bar. I asked a local where he had went and they told me that he had walked off in a direction opposite to my own. I never saw that old man again, but I'm sure the legend of Drago lives on in him as it does in me and the countless others who have read this masterpiece. For those wondering, I gave my copy of the book to a British traveler in the city of Nantou in Taiwan. He too noticed the book in my back pocket and expressed interest in the story of Ivan Drago. Sometimes I regret giving the copy away, considering the value of the autograph that lies within, but whenever I have such thoughts I remember how much more value there is in sharing the experience of Drago: on Mountains We Stand with my fellow compatriots and peers.
December 17, 2019
I was born in the shadow of Leningrad the year The Captain’s arm was raised at the Olympics. Though we were just a breath away from the collapse of the Soviet Union, time stood like a broken antique clock. Change was not something to which we were accustomed. Not in the 1980’s—not ever.
Time was as frozen as the soil on which I labored. We had little cause to celebrate, and so we held our heroes deep in our hearts. Captain Ivan Drago defined our hopes. He lived our dreams. He was everything in which we believed. We were all Drago.
Papa came home one evening and told everyone to wait outside while he talked to me. He sat me down and explained that Ivan Drago had defeated the great US boxer Apollo Creed. “Two rounds…his heart extinguished.”
The American Press, it was told to me, was publishing lies that Drago was malicious during the exhibition and killed Apollo Creed with purpose.
I was never told what happened to Ivan Drago after this. There was news that he would fight the great US champion Rocky Balboa in the Motherland, but this was never televised. I heard whispers that Drago lost to the American, and when I asked papa about it, he showed me tears for the only time in his life.
In 1989, my father was gone. I was asked to go through his belongings and take what I needed. In a green canvas bag I found a copy of On Mountains We Stand. It was inscribed by hand “Dear Captain” and simply signed “Noy”. The long-dried tears of my father stained every page then, as it does now mine, and as it will one day for my son. Cherished.
Time was as frozen as the soil on which I labored. We had little cause to celebrate, and so we held our heroes deep in our hearts. Captain Ivan Drago defined our hopes. He lived our dreams. He was everything in which we believed. We were all Drago.
Papa came home one evening and told everyone to wait outside while he talked to me. He sat me down and explained that Ivan Drago had defeated the great US boxer Apollo Creed. “Two rounds…his heart extinguished.”
The American Press, it was told to me, was publishing lies that Drago was malicious during the exhibition and killed Apollo Creed with purpose.
I was never told what happened to Ivan Drago after this. There was news that he would fight the great US champion Rocky Balboa in the Motherland, but this was never televised. I heard whispers that Drago lost to the American, and when I asked papa about it, he showed me tears for the only time in his life.
In 1989, my father was gone. I was asked to go through his belongings and take what I needed. In a green canvas bag I found a copy of On Mountains We Stand. It was inscribed by hand “Dear Captain” and simply signed “Noy”. The long-dried tears of my father stained every page then, as it does now mine, and as it will one day for my son. Cherished.
January 14, 2021
Due to the nature of my vocation, I tend to do a lot of flying. It's never pleasant, especially if it's a long flight. Last year, whilst sat in a cramped coach seat from LA to London, I foolishly attempted to numb the monotony with a movie. Alas, the screen of my entertainment centre, for want of a better word, appeared faulty so I was forced to seek solace in the inflight magazines. To my surprise, among with the usual mundane dirge I found a copy of Todd Noy's Drago.
It was a quick read, taking less than an hour but it greatly lifted my spirits during an uncomfortable time. It was then that I noticed the screen flickering, reflected in the corner of my glasses. As I looked up, the fault suddenly corrected itself and I was now able to indulge in a little mind rot. Sadly, none of the Rocky movies were available so I made do with a Bob's Burgers marathon. When the pilot announced our decent, I decided to scan through the book a second time.
Before I departed the plane, I returned the copy of On Mountains We Stand to the inflight pouch and made for luggage reclaim. Happier and less jaded.
It was a quick read, taking less than an hour but it greatly lifted my spirits during an uncomfortable time. It was then that I noticed the screen flickering, reflected in the corner of my glasses. As I looked up, the fault suddenly corrected itself and I was now able to indulge in a little mind rot. Sadly, none of the Rocky movies were available so I made do with a Bob's Burgers marathon. When the pilot announced our decent, I decided to scan through the book a second time.
Before I departed the plane, I returned the copy of On Mountains We Stand to the inflight pouch and made for luggage reclaim. Happier and less jaded.
August 19, 2021
I found this book in a puddle of February slush on the lobby floor of the Des Moines Public Library where some of the homeless come in to warm themselves before continuing their downtown perambulations. I stooped to grab it as I passed, faded & slightly damp {the book, not me}, with the vague intention of returning it inside. Surprised to find that it was not library property, I tucked it into my bag where it was not to be thought of again until I found it the next year in the midst of a global pandemic.
The cover promised a novelty that seemed so suddenly welcome given the unsettled disposition of the Umwelt.
As I began I found that I'd never considered the future of Ivan Drago, a champion who was defeated on the doorstep of the nation that had hammered him into creation. I was transported to the other side of this familiar movie. You knew what Rocky Balboa was fighting for, you felt it... and now I watched {read of} a man forced to find a reason just to stand up again, to know himself in the mirror again. You will know Ivan Drago through this book, and perhaps know yourself better.
This book has galvanized me to search out more of Noy's work.
The cover promised a novelty that seemed so suddenly welcome given the unsettled disposition of the Umwelt.
As I began I found that I'd never considered the future of Ivan Drago, a champion who was defeated on the doorstep of the nation that had hammered him into creation. I was transported to the other side of this familiar movie. You knew what Rocky Balboa was fighting for, you felt it... and now I watched {read of} a man forced to find a reason just to stand up again, to know himself in the mirror again. You will know Ivan Drago through this book, and perhaps know yourself better.
This book has galvanized me to search out more of Noy's work.
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