REGINE

A week after Regine’s three-night Finale concert, I find myself going through the posts, watching the uploaded clips, and reading the countless tributes to our beloved Songbird. There is so much admiration, so much affection, and so much gratitude for a woman who has given us decades of beautiful music.

But beyond the gowns, the production, the songs, and the thunderous applause, I find myself thinking about a young, almost timid girl I first met in 1984.

I knew her before the standing ovations, before the sold-out concerts, before the television shows and movies, before she became the Regine Velasquez we know today. Back then, she was Chona Velasquez, a young girl with a remarkable voice and a father who believed, perhaps more fiercely than anyone else, that his daughter was destined for something bigger.

That is the Regine I remember. And that is the Regine I cannot help but think of whenever I watch her perform.

I call it a three-episode Finale because each night was different—in gowns, spiels, and songs. Each night had its own personality, its own magic. And how could it have been otherwise? There were simply too many songs, too many memories, too much of a lifetime to squeeze into one evening.

Yet what struck me most was Regine's decision to retire her signature songs. She acknowledged, with a candor that I admire, that age, changes in her vocal range, and the quality of her voice today may no longer do justice to the songs so closely identified with her. That could not have been an easy decision. When you have spent a lifetime perfecting songs that people have come to love, letting them go must feel a little like saying goodbye to a part of yourself.

But perhaps it takes an even greater kind of courage to recognize when something has run its course, to accept that time changes us all, and to make that decision while you are still the one performing on that stage.  I respect her for that. And I understand why this moment has touched so many people.

But allow me to go back to where it all began. In 1984, I was producing Ang Bagong Kampeon at RPN 9, a singing competition that gave aspiring singers a chance to prove themselves. Among those who kept coming back to the studio was a young girl accompanied by her father, Mang Gerry. Week after week, they would patiently wait, hoping she would be chosen to compete in that day's live episode. I remember seeing them return, again and again, and I can only imagine how much hope—and perhaps anxiety—went with every visit.

Finally, her turn came. But the timing was unfortunate. It was the last week of the defending champion, who had already won eight consecutive weeks. That was a formidable opponent for a newcomer.

I remember thinking, Sayang naman kung matalo.

There was something about this girl that made me believe she could go far. She had the voice, the potential, and that special something you cannot always explain but somehow recognize when you see it. I felt she deserved a fair chance to show us what she could do.

So I approached Mang Gerry and asked if they would be willing to wait until the following week, when a new champion would begin her run.

He agreed.

It was a small decision, almost an ordinary production consideration at the time. I certainly could not have imagined the extraordinary journey that would follow. But looking back now, I am grateful that I trusted my instinct. Chona Velasquez went on to win eight consecutive weeks herself and eventually took home the grand champion prize that year. I believe Ang Bagong Kampeon was her last amateur singing contest.

And just like that, the shy girl who had been patiently waiting for her turn was on her way.

Talent managers came offering to handle her career. Television programs invited her to guest. Concert artists began including her in their lineups. Eventually, she was headlining her own concerts, filling venues with people who wanted to hear her sing. Networks wanted her for their shows, film studios wanted her in their movies.

Her dreams were beginning to come true.

But whenever I think of Regine's success, I think, too, of what that success meant to her family. This was not simply a story about a gifted girl becoming famous. It was also about a daughter who could help change her family's circumstances, a father whose faith in his child was being rewarded, and a family that could finally enjoy the fruits of all those years of hard work and sacrifice.

Perhaps that is why her story has always meant something more to me than discovering a promising talent. I had witnessed the beginning of a dream, and then, over the years, I had the privilege of seeing that dream unfold.

When I moved from RPN to GMA, I continued to follow her career. And I will admit, I always felt a special kind of pride. She was, after all, my winner. My grand champion.

I know she had many people who helped shape her career along the way. No one builds a career of that magnitude alone. But I was there at the beginning, and that connection is something I have always treasured.

I also continued to talk to Mang Gerry, who was every bit the protective father you would expect him to be. Regine fondly called him the “leader of the band,” and I always thought that was such an apt description. He had his own quiet way of looking after his daughter. He would casually tell me what he hoped we could do for her.

Sana ilagay siya sa mas harap.

Sana may high stool din siya.

And then there was his prediction about the weather.

“Pag sa labas ka mag-taping, siguradong uulan. Laging umuulan pag kumakanta si Regine sa open air.”

I used to smile at that. But Mang Gerry knew what he was talking about. It did rain when we shot that iconic Millennium Day broadcast performance, with Regine perched atop the exterior of a hotel, singing as we welcomed a new millennium.

It rained. Just as he said it would.  But Regine kept singing.

I remember these little things with so much fondness. Not because they were extraordinary production stories, but because they reveal the kind of father Mang Gerry was. He noticed everything. He wanted his daughter to be comfortable, properly positioned, given the best possible chance to shine. And he made his requests without fuss or entitlement. He was polite, humble, and quietly persistent.

Because she was my champion, I made sure we found opportunities for her at GMA. We had her host her own singing competitions, do Regine Specials, variety shows, lifestyle programs, and eventually primetime drama series. We explored what television could offer her, and she proved she could do so much more than sing.

But I always knew that, if Regine had her way, she would rather be singing. That was where her heart was. That was what she loved most. And when she eventually decided to leave GMA to focus on her music and concerts, I understood. I knew she needed to follow what mattered most to her.

I followed her through her concerts. I listened to her sing. And every time she delivered a song with that unmistakable intensity, power, and emotional honesty, I found myself amazed all over again. I watched audiences rise to their feet, heard the screaming fans, and witnessed the kind of adulation that only a rare artist can command.

In one of her concert spiels, Regine graciously thanked me for opening doors for her, for paving the way, and for being her “second mom” during her years at GMA. I cannot adequately describe how much that meant to me. In our business, we are always moving on to the next program, the next production, the next big idea, the next deadline. We work with people, build shows with them, help develop their careers, and then life takes everyone in different directions. Sometimes, years pass before we stop to look back. To be remembered with such affection by someone whose journey you witnessed from the beginning is a gift. To know that she remembers not only the opportunities but also the relationship behind them is even more precious.

I did not make Regine a star. She had the talent, the determination, and the heart to become one. Her father gave her his unwavering belief. Many others helped her along the way. But I was fortunate enough to be there when one important door opened, and I will always be grateful that I had a part in that chapter of her life.

Now, four decades after that Ang Bagong Kampeon Grand Finals night, my champion is saying goodbye to the signature songs that have defined so much of her career. And I find myself feeling both proud and a little sentimental. Because when I think of Regine retiring these songs, I do not see a star losing something. I see a woman who has lived a full artistic life, who has given so much of herself to her audience, and who has earned the right to decide what comes next.

Perhaps that is what makes this moment so personal for me. In television, we know that every story has its moments in the light. There is a fade-in when a new chapter begins, when a young girl steps onto a stage and dares to dream. There are the bright, unforgettable scenes when talent meets opportunity, when hard work is rewarded, and when a champion becomes a star.

And then, inevitably, there is the fade-out—not necessarily because the story is over, but because one beautiful scene must give way to another.

Regine may be retiring the songs that have defined much of her career, but she is not retiring the memories, the music, or the love she has earned. Those are hers to keep, and ours to cherish. The voice may change. The songs may change. The stage may look different. But what she has given us can never be taken away.

As I look back on my own journey in television, I realize how fortunate I have been to witness the beginnings of extraordinary stories—and to play a small part in helping some of them unfold. Regine's is one of those stories I will always hold close to my heart.

I was there when the young Chona Velasquez became Ang Bagong Kampeon. And now, decades later, I watch with pride as Regine Velasquez chooses, on her own terms, how to turn the page.

Some stories fade out of the spotlight, but never out of the heart. And some champions, no matter how many times the lights dim, will always be our champions.