Exit The Dragon

By Jonathan Macalolooy and Jason Tamse

What happens when your dreams are shattered in two? When your world comes crumbling down and you're forced to begin anew? Do you stay down and blame the game or embrace the flame and let the transformation take you?

This is the essence of Exit The Dragon. 

On the surface we meet JonMac, a young martial ar

• Language: English
• Publisher: JonMac Creations
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733043816

Jonathan Macalolooy

Jonathan Macalolooy is a lifelong martial artist, former professional fighter, and author of Exit The Dragon. Beyond the combative and literary arts, he is also a motivational speaker, teacher, and artist. For more info, visit www.JonMacalolooy.com

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Copyright © 2019 byJonathanMacalolooy

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Jonathan Macalolooy

www.JonMacalolooy.com

Cover art: John Lee

Cover photos: Cotch Diaz, Javier Enriquez

Primary fight photographer: Javier Enriquez

Fight photographer: Vince Monasterio

Illustrator: Jason Tamse

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

ExhTheDragon/JonathanMacalolooy–2nd Edition

ISBN 978-1-7330438-8-5

ISBN 978-1-7330438-1-6 (e book)

STRIKING WORDS

He’s a lifelong martial artist... he lives the art... he lives it in such a way that there’s no violence or stigma of any type of aggression about it with him. It’s a truly life changing thing to be able to take an art that can be potentially so destructive and be creative with it.

STEVE DEL FIERRO

4X National Muay Thai Champion

If you ever got to really have a conversation with JonMac, he’s droppin’ some knowledge on you. In some type of way, he wants you to be a better person just from the experience you had with that conversation. Aside from fighting and martial arts, we’re all just living regular everyday lives. You just wanna have the best life you can possibly have. And finding enlightenment inside, and trying to find yourself, and finding what you like, and following your dreams... that’s some stuff that I really learned from JonMac.

JACOB DONATO

Kajukenbo Black Belt, Artist, Entrepreneur

Above all else, he’s an alchemist. Martial artist. Writer. He’s a creator. He creates. That’s what he does. He creates things, he changes shit to whatever it is that he wants it to be.

JAVIER ENRIQUEZ

Kajukenbo Black Belt, *Featured Photographer

It’s a great — not hand guide — but almost like a great Cliff Notes on your life and what your life is gonna be like, and what you can expect... Some right turns, some wrong turns, some left turns. Some roads you should have stayed on. I think it would be a great guide for anybody who wants to be a fighter. I think it will reach more people than that, but I think, honestly, fighters would love to pick this book up and read it.

BRANDON VERA

ONE FC Heavyweight World Champion

Jon has a way of teaching you so that you can grasp the concept and the idea. He takes different things and changes the medium of it, and knows how to correlate things, in a sense to where you can grasp it. It doesn’t matter what kind of audience you have. It doesn’t matter if you’re a chef, or you’re a dancer... he’ll find ways of showing you how to understand what he’s trying to portray and what he’s trying to reach out to the people.

NICO NOCHE

Kajukenbo Black Belt, Musician, DJ, Dancer

JonMac is a hardworking individual who likes to perfect what he's on. He stays focused. Very determined. His work ethic is unbelievable... If he were to pursue fighting, there's no doubt in my mind he would be world champion... Like I said, I can’t stress, no matter what he do. If this guy wanna become a motha' fuckin’ taco shop owner, everyone's gonna go to that taco shop.

TIGER SMALLS

Former NABO & WBO Featherweight World Champion

He's an animal in the gym. Explosive. On point. Very technical. Humble. Respectful. Loyal... He's just a natural athlete in every aspect of the sport.

HERMAN TERRADO

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Black Belt, Bellator Veteran

Hopefully this opens a lot of eyes. If you understand cinematography or you've read a few books and you understand that there’s underlying messages, you can appreciate, say, the original Star Wars. Say all you’re looking for is CGI or special effects, you can miss the moral of the story. They’re just seeing the surface, and even though the surface stuff may be pretty, you're not getting the depth. For the reader, look into it in depth.

DARREN UYENOYAMA

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Black Belt, UFC Veteran

That’s really the only experience I have with Jon, is beating the hell out of each other. When you exchange blood and choke each other out a few times and hurt each other’s arms and know that person could have broke your arm that day or they didn’t... or they could have torn your knee apart but they didn’t, you build some sort of comradery. I’m not one of those people who forgets who got me somewhere... JonMac was always good to me, always a great training partner.

DOMINICK CRUZ

Former UFC Bantamweight World Champion

I think he was destined for this. I think that aside from his extreme talent as a fighter and martial artist, I think that Jon is meant to do this. He’s got a really different mind... His message can help the person who’s in the most successful position in life to a person that is sleeping on the bathroom floor. Jon’s book — whatever he does in life — will help anybody of any walk of life.

GAZZY PARMAN

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Black Belt, Female Grappling Pioneer

DEDICATION

To my cousin, Nico. I can still feel the warmth of your hug, the joy of your laugh, and the sting of your left hook. You are greatly missed. Rest easy, cuz. I love you.

March 21, 1981 - November 15, 2016

ART IS A LIE

THAT MAKES US REALIZE

THE TRUTH

PICASSO

Contents

Multimedia

Creator’s Note

Part one

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

Part two

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

Part three

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

About the illustrator

About the author

MULTIMEDIA

When I decided to write this book, the purpose was clear: to use my story as a vessel for edifying a message that was greater than me; a message universal to the human condition. What I didn’t realize, was that this project was going to take me over six years to complete, or transform me in the process, but that’s another story.

As I dove deeper into the art of writing, I saw that how I told the story was just as important as the story itself. With that in mind, I set out to tell my story through a blend of media. I wanted to craft a piece of art that authentically expressed who I was; one that exemplified my skills as not just a writer, but an artist.

One of the things that I loved most about competing in MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) was the necessity to blend mediums. I wasn’t limited to punches like I was in boxing or banned from striking like I was in wrestling. It was a free flowing and ever evolving canvas. So when I fought, the goal wasn’t just to win, but to also create art through a blending of martial disciplines that was uniquely me. That was the mindset I applied when attacking this project.

Boxing by itself is a beautiful craft. Same as the art or writing. If I have the freedom to blend mediums, however, why not? Why not splash the pages with photos crafted to look like comics? Or illuminate the journey within through thought provoking illustrations? Why not share videos so that the reader could feel like they were actually there? Or create a documentary filled with the characters from the book? Why... not?

There was definitely a voice in my head telling me that I was crazy. Most of the skills I needed to articulate my vision were out of my grasp, not to mention the amount of time it was going to take to learn and execute them. Yet still, I pressed forward. Why? Because the ideas wouldn't stop knocking until I gave them life. Fortunately, crazy was the exact thing I needed to pull this off.

As you continue on, know that I have poured every ounce of my heart and soul into this work. And if there are any imperfections along the way, it’s simply because I’m human. Thank you for your time. Thank you for your energy. I am in gratitude for your willingness to join me on this journey.

To watch the documentary

and all videos related to Exit the Dragon, visit:

www.JonMacaIolooy.com

CREATOR’S NOTE

As an artist, I struggled with how I was going to deliver my story. I wanted to share my truth without hurting anybody's feelings in the process, so on my first few attempts, I coated my words with sugar. Life, however, isn't always that sweet.

Anger, envy, and fear are just as real as joy, elation, and pride. So when I finally mustered the courage to share, I promised I wouldn't hide. I'd tell it like it was and allow profanity to litter the pages. That's how I thought and felt back then, so why clean up the messiness of life's stages? It’s real. It’s unfiltered. It's me. It's everything I am and everything I hope to be.

What you are about to read is not for the faint-hearted. If you're easily offended, then turn back now. This is meant for those seeking growth, and growth as we know, is often painful. There may be things that bother you. Know that that’s okay. I’m not here to hold your hand. I'm here to show you the way.

Taste the tea that I've brewed, and if it doesn't tickle your fancy, then simply discard it. I promise to not take offense. Know, however, that I cannot fill your cup if it is already full. Empty it and then we can begin...

Are you ready now?

Then let's journey within.

ONE

Time couldn't move any slower. The moment I woke up I was counting down the minutes before they locked the door. My heart beat with anxiety. My mind, restless. How was I supposed to keep calm knowing I'd be fighting by nightfall?

I don’t. I sit and wait because there's nothing else I can do. The division between excitement and nervousness blur and in the confusion of emotions, the mind begins to take over.

Are you sure you know what you’re doing? You ain’t gonna break, are you? What if you get caught? What if you ain't as tough as you think?

Man, stop trippin’! You were born to do this. Ain't no one better than you. It’s your time. Get it together, Jon.

Despite the confidence I carried, and that it was already my second professional fight, pre-fight jitters still pestered. My palms were clammy, my fingertips cold. I tried using my breath to suppress the nerves, but my mind struggled to find its footing.

When we arrived at Red Hawk Casino, everyone wanted to talk. Most had driven over a hundred miles to watch me fight, making me feel obliged to entertain them. No one said anything of importance anyway, just the usual Are you ready? or Dude, you’re totally gonna smash this kid.

I appreciated their faith, but it only added to the pressure. I didn’t care about the thousands of anonymous fans that’d be watching that night. It was the people I loved who I feared to let down most. They all expected greatness from me.

Jeff wrapped my hands as the venue continued to fill, but something was off. The wraps didn’t feel as snug as they did the first time around. My brother was part of my corner for my pro-debut, but he wasn’t the one wrapping my hands, nor was he a part of my training camp. I was still living in San Diego at the time.

The corner for my first fight was comprised of champions and vets in the sport, but that wasn’t the case this time. Now Jeff ran the show, with my cousin, Nico, stepping in as head trainer since my brother just had shoulder surgery.

Growing up, Jeff was my hero. By the time I was born he was already a black belt with a plethora of trophies to prove his worth. As a kid, he seemed untouchable, but my brother had never fought professionally before, nor had he ever cornered a pro-fighter. I’d always admired him and his abilities, but he hadn’t ventured down the path as far as I had. The journey was new for all of us.

My nephew and his best friend observed the pre-fight rituals, entranced by the allure of being backstage. They were only fourteen at the time, but a couple of the most talented kids I’d ever seen. Jacob was ten years my junior and already raising the bar with each step toward manhood. He and his best friend, also named Jacob, had been training together since they were five.

Fighting was in our blood. My grandfather boxed in the Philippines, so did my dad, and most of my uncles. Legend has it that Grandpa would rather fight than eat. And even though I never had the chance to meet him, I was sure his spirit filled me.

The foundation of our style came from the traditional martial arts, but the focus was always on fighting. At the end of the day, that’s all that mattered—one’s ability to fight. Pretty forms and crisp techniques were great, but they didn't mean shit if you couldn't scrap. Knowing how to defend yourself and actually being able to were far from the same.

The Dragons Den was a grassroots gym; a family based martial arts school born out of my parents’ garage. My brother ran classes a couple nights a week, unaware of how massive the beast would eventually become. It started with Kajukenbo, but that was only the beginning. Within a few years we outgrew the garage, moving from building to building in order to keep up with the growth. Wrestling, boxing, and Eskrima (Filipino stick-fighting) filled the gaps as the time in our schedule widened.

As the Den continued to expand, I moved away for college, but upon return, we added Muay Thai and Jiu Jitsu—skills I’d picked up while I was away. We were living the dream and still bursting at the seams for a bigger place. The Dragons Den was on fire.

Having a school was cool, but it was time to take things to the next level, and I was going to be the one to do it. It was my turn to carry the torch; my turn to carry our name.

Jeff motioned me to make a fist once my hands were taped and lightly slammed his palms into my knuckles.

Pfft. Pfft.

My hands were ready for war.

A couple of fold-out mats covered the concrete floor where fighters hit mitts like it was their first time. I didn’t know what was worse, their technique or the lousy set-up they expected us to warm-up on. The tents were cramped and humid, so we opted to get ready outside.

I could see the cage from where I was, which also meant I could see the fans. Like Starbucks, my name was everywhere. We'd printed over a hundred and fifty shirts for the fight, all mimicking RUN DMC’s iconic hip-hop logo. Seeing my name boldly displayed across everyone's chest filled me with pride. I wasn’t going to wait for some big-named company to sponsor me so that I could have my name surrounded with flaming skulls and foil printed dragons. That wasn't my style.

Tif. Tif. Tif. Tif. Tif. Tif. Tif.

The skip of the rope set the tone. Swagger spilled.

Tif. Tif. Tif.

This is it, Jon.

It's your time.

You were born to fight.

He ain’t on your level.

No one is.

You're too skilled.

You’re too fast.

You’re too smart.

Tif. Tif. Tif. Tif. Tif.

Sweat began to bead from my forehead. My body was eager to move. Without skipping a beat, I dropped the rope and taunted my shadow.

Ush-ush-ush. A triple jab got me dancing.

Footwork fed my cadence. Flurries fired behind feints. It couldn't touch me; my movement was too clean. Unlike Pan, my shadow never won.

Fighters and trainers stopped to watch. What they witnessed was brilliance. The art of fighting transcended the simplicity of strikes and submissions if seen through the proper lens, but to the ignorant fan it was barbaric brutality.

Your guy looks pretty sharp. How long has he been fighting for? A trainer stopped to talk with my brother while I hit the mitts.

It’s only our second fight, but he’s been training since he was five.

POW!

I slammed a right cross into the pads and slipped the imaginary counter. I knew he was watching. Another crisp combo hammered in my point. I wanted him to see our pedigree.

The timing and angles developed from years of point-karate blended seamlessly with my boxing. I didn't care if it was only my second fight; I planned on being the highlight that night, just like I was in my debut. It was only a matter of time before I’d wrap that strap around my waist and be crowned as one of the greatest fighters of all time.

There was nowhere to roll outside, so we scratched the grappling part of warm-up. My wrestling was pretty solid anyway, so I wasn’t too worried about getting taken down. Plus, the plan was to showcase my stand-up.

Dipped from an endless well of creativity, I bled onto the canvas with brush strokes disguised as strikes. With the best being arbitrary, I knew one thing for sure: no one moved like me. That’s what I wanted the world to see; the things I had trained my body to do.

You’re on in two.

My chest tightened. Like a ton of bricks, reality set in. Again, my palms were clammy. The confidence that lifted my shoulders just seconds prior seemed to no longer boast the same bravado. I tried using my breath to keep composed, but like liquid, it crept through every crack of my armor. No matter how much experience I had, it was still a fight. My opponent wasn’t there to play. He was there to rip my head off or take my arm home as a trophy.

Everyone was expecting greatness from me. Everyone was there to see JonMac take the fight game by storm. I had to perform. I had no choice.

Nico grabbed the gear while I slipped away in prayer. My heart pounded in anticipation.

Alright, God. This is it. This is what I’ve trained my whole life for. Allow me to put on a show for the fans. Give me the strength to carry out my mission. You know my heart. You know my desires. Guide me in the cage. Amen.

A deep breath concluded the prayer. Like a samurai, I slipped into my gi before war. The rough canvas hugged my shoulders as I wrapped my belt around my waist, ragged and weathered from years of being tied. Whatever doubts I had needed to stay backstage. There was no room for fear in the cage.

We walked out to the first of two staging areas, just behind the last row of spectators. The fight prior neared its end.

Hit the mitts while we wait.

I tried to ignore my brother’s command, but Nico had already grabbed the mitts and motioned me toward him. I knew it was all for show, but we did as we were told.

Pat, pat-boom.

Pat-pat-pat.

Pat-pat-pat.

Pat-BOOM.

Onlookers stopped to watch. JonMac was eager to please. Like a circus monkey, I performed for the fans. Despite the hesitation, I enjoyed the limelight. Each hit of the mitts was a hint for people to get back to their seats, because in a few moments, they’d all be in for a treat.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

My turn.

We moved closer.

Fans flanked my sides as they began to rise from their seats. The moments before war were slipping away.

I paced back and forth as my opponent entered the cage. On the surface I kept the facade of a deadly warrior, but inside I tried to hide from the incessant screams of nervousness.

Everyone was there. I could hear their voices, I could see their faces, but pausing to acknowledge their presence distracted me. I needed to stay focused. So while my awareness drifted from time to time, I squinted my eyes and pretended to be unphased.

Let’s go JONMAC!

It’s all you baby!!! It’s your time!

Shouts from the crowd surged through my veins. My heart beat quicker.

JONMAC! JONMAC! JONMAC!

I absorbed their energy.

Fighting out of the red corner, weighing in at 125 pounds... He represents Dragons Den M-M-A... Jonathan Ma-ca-lo-lo-oooooy.

We marched passed the remaining spectators. This was it. No turning back now. When we got to the steps, I unrobed and hugged my corner. Jeff was first, then Nico and everybody else.

Showtiiiiiiime! My nephew’s call to action shot me up the steps.

I bowed and entered.

The cage locked.

My opponent shot daggers at me as I bounced in place.

You ready?

The ref looked to the left for confirmation, then back toward me.

"You ready?

Nodding out of habit, but not really ready, there was nothing I could do at that point but fight. We were introduced during our walk-out, so the time before action was abrupt. We didn’t even get called to the center to touch gloves. As soon as I got in the cage we were called to action. It was too fast. My heart was in a sprint. I didn’t have time to adapt to the energy of the cage.

Fight!

Circling, I put my back to the sun as my brother had instructed.

Southpaw. Damn.

His switch-stance rattled me. I kept distance until my thoughts could slow. Footwork and feints drew an opening.

THUMMM!

I fired without hesitation as the ball of my foot jammed his torso. He shuffled back.

There it is.

We circled the cage as tension continued to build. Adrenaline exploded with every step. The crowd was in frenzy.

Whiiissssh.

He shuffled in with a kick of his own, but missed.

I knew it was coming. Instinct encourages you to fire back with whatever’s thrown at you. You get punched in the face and emotions cloud your judgment. All you can think about is punching them in the face even harder. When you know this, exploitation becomes easy.

My nerves settled. My thoughts slowed.

He loads his right.

Feints forced his cards to show. I knew he was searching for a homerun hook. I kept my distance. I wasn't there to brawl—I wanted to showcase my craft. Getting hit to give a hit seemed stupid when it was possible to outwit your opponent with ingenuity.

Capitalizing on our mirrored stances, I fired a round kick.

Zoom.

He charged in the moment I reset. It was a weak shot, but the cage was tiny. Two steps back and I was pressed against the fence with him deep on my legs.

Immediately, I wedged my arm under his, jacked him up, and circled him against the fence. A couple short knees broke our clinch before I blitzed back in with an elbow. Dumb move. I was over eager for the finish. My strike landed, but now we were back to grappling.

Relax. Breathe and relax.

Back on our feet he attempted another kick, and without thought, my hand dropped to catch his foot as I slung an overhand right toward his dome. The wrestler in me bolted forward as I lifted him from his feet.

Fuck!

He cinched his arm around my neck. Panic pulsed. Pressure was my immediate answer as I pressed him against the fence. Without the space to adjust he couldn't finish the choke. Once I freed my neck, he tried keeping me in his guard, but my pressure was too much. Again, I brought the fight back to the center.

My muscles pumped with blood, my energy zapped from the panic. My rhythm was gone. Within seconds, he was back in on my legs, desperate for the takedown. A standing reversal re-established my control.

Foom.

I hiked his leg between mine before he could counter.

Shit!

A sloppy scramble trapped my arm in a submission. Pressure bought time, but I needed a Jiu Jitsu mind to solve the puzzle. I hid my arm behind his leg, pinned my knee against his face, and pried my arm free. Hammer fists followed shortly.

Whaaak. Whaak. Whak.

Stop fucking moving!

Frustration boiled.

I held him down for a few more seconds before bringing the fight back to our feet. I needed to catch my breath. I returned to my rhythm and switched my stance. I wanted to end the round with authority.

Pat-pat.

I fired a couple jabs to get his hands to rise.

Pat.

A follow up jab hid my intended attack as I slung a nasty shin kick toward his thigh.

WHHHAAAAAKKKK!

The audience erupted.

What the fuck?! Did I just get knocked out?

Time slowed as I crumpled to the floor.

No, you're talking to yourself.

My arms wrapped around his leg in desperation. Punches poured out as I tried to assess the damage. Pain exploded from every nerve of my shin.

HOLY SHIT!!!

I lifted my knee from the floor. The pointed edges of my shin attempted to pierce my skin.

STOP THE FIGHT! STOP THE FIGHT!! MY LEG IS BROKE! STOP THE FIGHT!!

I yelled in a panic, but the punches continued to rain down as I remained helplessly beneath him. The crowd was too loud. The ref couldn't hear me.

His leg is broke! Stop the fight!

Cage side spectators joined in. The ref waved off the fight. It was over. My opponent jumped up and ran around the cage with his arms raised as if he'd won.

An exhale of disgust.

Fuck... It's over.

Words vanished as heartbreak set in. My spirit cowered in shame. My heart beat in defeat.

The ref called me to my feet, but didn’t understand the severity of my situation. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t walk. I was useless.

Seconds seemed like hours as we waited for the paramedics to arrive. To appease the uneasy crowd, the announcer walked over. You want to say something, kid?

Looking up in disbelief, I hesitated before grabbing the mic. What was there to say?

I cleared my throat, buying time to steady my breath. Ah-hem. Looks like I broke my leg... My heart fluttered. My lips quivered.

Sorry I couldn’t finish the fight...

My words trembled as I promised the fans I’d be back, but they were as empty as my soul. Would I?

I cleared my throat again, but there was nothing left to say. The crowd clapped, but I didn’t care. Their pity didn't change anything.

When the paramedics finally arrived, they told me they had to reposition my leg before moving me. The pain was excruciating. I didn’t know what was worse, breaking my leg or them trying to realign the broken pieces.

Strapped to the stretcher, I gazed helplessly at the blank afternoon sky, avoiding eye contact with anyone who passed by. The audience applauded as I exited the cage. Cries from friends and family echoed through my ears.

You’ll be alright, Jon. Nostrils flared as I fought the tears.

We love you JonMaaaac! My jaw clenched. I’d let everyone down.

I love you, son.

My dad’s voice cut through the noise as his hand touched my arm. Saltiness slid down my cheeks. It wasn’t the shoulder hiccuped-sobs of a child, but the steady stream of a defeated man.

Lost. Hurt. Hopeless.

By the time we reached the ambulance, my heart was destroyed.