Michael Ferrer

Imagine Manila in May 1994. You stop at a newsstand and there she is again—Christelle Roelandts, the 19-year-old Miss Belgium, staring from newspapers and magazines. Her photographs are so sought-after that reports emerge of pictures being sold on the black market. Fans wait for her appearances. Men send her flowers and love letters. Wherever Miss Universe candidates go, Filipinos look for the young Belgian with the doll-like face. And she isn’t even Miss Universe. This was the extraordinary frenzy surrounding Roelandts when the Philippines hosted Miss Universe 1994, one of the most feverishly followed editions of the international pageant in the country. For several weeks, Manila seemingly couldn’t get enough of Miss Belgium. British newspaper The Independent eventually gave the phenomenon a name: “Belgiumania.” MANILA’S OTHER BEAUTY QUEEN The Philippines naturally had its own candidate to support in Charlene Gonzales, who would eventually reach the Top 6. But Roelandts somehow became another darling of the Filipino crowd. With her long brown hair, youthful face and delicate features, she was frequently described as doll-like. Photographers followed her, newspapers featured her and fans clamored for her pictures. The frenzy was remarkable considering this happened long before social media could manufacture overnight celebrity. There were no viral TikTok videos, Instagram reels or fan pages relentlessly pushing a candidate into everyone’s feed. In 1994, popularity was measured by newspaper space, television exposure, screaming crowds and photographs people actually paid money to own. By those standards, Miss Belgium was viral before “viral” meant anything online. The Independent reported that photographs of Roelandts were being sold on Manila’s black market and that she had become such a celebrity that even after Miss Universe ended, Filipinos were still buying pictures of her. Her face had become a commodity. THEN CAME ‘MISS BELI-GUM’ Even a spelling mistake added to her mythology. At one appearance, Roelandts wore a sash that famously spelled her country “Beligum.” Instead of embarrassing her, the mistake became part of her charm. The Independent reported that Filipinos affectionately began referring to the Belgian beauty as “Miss Beli-gum.” It was precisely the sort of small, human moment that seemed to make Filipinos like her even more. By coronation night on May 21, Roelandts was no longer simply another contestant. She was one of Manila’s sentimental favorites. Then came the announcement of the Top 10. Belgium wasn’t called. THE FAVORITE WHO DIDN’T MAKE IT For Filipino fans who had spent weeks following Roelandts, her elimination was a genuine shock. Roelandts failed to advance to the semifinals, while Gonzales continued into the Top 6. India’s Sushmita Sen eventually won the crown, followed by Colombia’s Carolina Gómez and Venezuela’s Minorka Mercado. But the Miss Belgium story didn’t disappear with the results. Weeks after the pageant, The Independent was still writing about Roelandts’ extraordinary Filipino following, reporting that “the nation cried” when she failed to make the cut. The newspaper’s headline captured just how bizarrely huge she had become: “Miss Beligum is a superstar.” And in Manila, she practically was. THE ORIGINAL PAGEANT VIRAL SENSATION Thirty-two years later, the frenzy surrounding Roelandts is difficult to imagine precisely because it happened without the machinery that drives pageant fandom today. There were no hashtags to push Miss Belgium into the trending topics. No algorithm repeatedly showing Filipinos her face. No online voting campaigns or armies of social media accounts. People simply saw her—and liked her. Then newspapers put her on their pages. Photographers couldn’t get enough of her. Fans collected her pictures. Word spread. The fascination fed itself until a 19-year-old contestant from a small European country became one of Manila’s most recognizable foreign visitors. She didn’t win Miss Universe. She didn’t even make the Top 10. Yet among Filipinos who followed Miss Universe 1994, Christelle Roelandts became something arguably more unusual: the contestant whose popularity seemed almost completely detached from whether she actually won. For several extraordinary weeks in 1994, Manila didn’t need Miss Belgium to wear the crown. It had already made her a superstar. (✍️: Top Dagohoy) #radarPHEntertainment #radarPH

Look at the stands during an ordinary PBA elimination game today and the problem is hard to miss. Rows of empty seats. Scattered spectators. Games unfolding without the deafening crowds once synonymous with Philippine basketball. It is a startling sight for a league that once practically stopped the country. There was a time when big PBA games meant packed arenas and families gathered around television sets. Crispa versus Toyota divided households. Robert Jaworski turned Ginebra into a phenomenon. Alvin Patrimonio, Allan Caidic and Benjie Paras became household names. The PBA wasn’t simply a basketball league. It was Filipino pop culture. So where did the audience go? FILIPINOS DIDN’T ABANDON BASKETBALL The strange thing is that Filipinos remain obsessed with the sport. UAAP basketball can attract huge crowds. Gilas Pilipinas still turns major games into national events. Millions follow the NBA, while Filipino players competing in Japan and Korea have gained their own following. The PBA therefore faces an uncomfortable reality: basketball hasn’t lost its audience. The league has lost its monopoly over it. HAS THE PBA BECOME TOO PREDICTABLE? One complaint repeatedly raised by frustrated fans is the lack of parity. Much of the league’s power is concentrated among teams belonging to two corporate groups: San Miguel Corporation and the MVP group. Fans have also long used the controversial term “farm teams” for smaller franchises perceived as repeatedly trading promising players and valuable assets to more powerful teams. The league reviews and approves trades, and teams have pushed back against suggestions that transactions are deliberately designed to strengthen particular franchises. But in sports, perception matters. If fans believe only a handful of teams can realistically become champions, why emotionally invest in everybody else? THE STARS HAVE OTHER OPTIONS The PBA was once the inevitable destination for the country’s best players. Not anymore. Young Filipino stars can now build careers in Japan’s B.League, South Korea’s KBL and elsewhere. The rise of overseas opportunities means becoming a major Filipino basketball star no longer requires becoming a PBA star first. Meanwhile, fans themselves have endless alternatives—from the NBA and international leagues to UAAP basketball, volleyball, esports and streaming entertainment. EVEN GOING TO A GAME IS HARDER Then there is everyday economics. Watching a PBA game in Metro Manila can mean battling traffic and spending on transportation, parking, tickets and food. Watching from home requires none of those. Yet there is compelling evidence that the PBA crowd hasn’t completely disappeared. Game 7 of the 2025 Commissioner’s Cup Finals between Barangay Ginebra and TNT drew a reported 21,274 spectators to Smart Araneta Coliseum. When the stakes are irresistible, Filipinos still come. That may be the most important clue. The PBA has experimented with innovations such as the four-point shot, but basketball ultimately depends on something rules cannot manufacture: stars people care about, rivalries they believe in, teams they identify with and games whose outcomes feel uncertain. Go to almost any barangay and Filipinos are still shooting hoops. Open social media and they’re arguing about basketball. Put Gilas in a major game and the country pays attention. Filipinos never stopped loving basketball. The question confronting the PBA is much harder: Why did so many stop watching it? (✍️: Top Dagohoy) #radarPHEntertainment #radarPH

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