Famous Family Stories

In the bustling streets of downtown Miami, our family experienced one of those moments that would become legendary at every gathering for years to come. Felipe Ponce de Leon, ever the calm and dignified Cuban patriarch, was navigating his beloved Cadillac through the city streets with his family in tow. Isabel, his wife, was perched in the passenger seat doing what she did best - backseat driving and offering running commentary on Miami's traffic situation.

The peaceful family outing took an unexpected turn when - ¡BAM! - a Jamaican gentleman's car collided with Felipe's prized Cadillac. What followed was pure theater of the absurd, Miami style.

Isabel, our dear abuela, immediately clutched her necklace and exclaimed "Oh damn it, Felipe!" with the kind of exasperation only a wife of many years can muster. Felipe, maintaining his characteristic composure, simply turned to his daughter and said, "Biki, please walk your mother back to the hotel." The contrast between Isabel's dramatic response and Felipe's calm demeanor couldn't have been more stark.

Meanwhile, the other driver emerged from his car and began putting on quite a show. He was jumping around the street, gesticulating wildly, and shouting - a one-man performance in the middle of downtown Miami. Felipe stood there, watching this display with his trademark raised eyebrow, the kind of look that said volumes without a single word.

When the police arrived, the scene took an even more theatrical turn. Our animated friend suddenly transformed from a jumping bean into a picture of injury and distress, crouching over as if he'd just been hit by a freight train instead of being the one who caused the accident. Felipe, in his thick Cuban accent that could cut through any pretense, simply stated to the officers: "He was just jumping around like crazy!"

Thankfully, several witnesses came forward to confirm Felipe's version of events, having enjoyed the free street performance as much as anyone. The police, now dealing with both the accident and the growing traffic jam in downtown Miami, assured Felipe he was in the clear and that they would provide a statement confirming he wasn't at fault.

Now, this is where the story becomes truly Felipe. As the officers were desperately trying to direct the snarled rush hour traffic - three lanes of irritated Miami drivers in the hot sun - Felipe pulled up beside one of the officers. Picture this: the policeman standing there, arms raised, literally holding back the tide of Miami traffic like Moses at the Red Sea.

"Excuse me, officer! Excuse me!" Felipe called out.

The officer, probably wondering what else could possibly happen, turned to Felipe and asked, "What?!"

And then, with the timing of a master comedian and the innocent sincerity that only Felipe could muster, he asked:

"Did I win?"

The story of how Felipe Ponce de Leon single-handedly brought downtown Miami traffic to a standstill just to inquire about his "victory" has become one of our family's most treasured tales. It perfectly captures his witty personality, his impeccable timing, and that special ability to find humor in any situation - even a fender bender in downtown Miami.

To this day, whenever any family member gets into a minor scrape or faces a challenging situation, someone inevitably turns to them with raised eyebrows and asks, in their best Cuban accent, "Did I win?" And just like that, the tension breaks, laughter erupts, and we're reminded of the wonderful character who helped shape our family's story.

The Day Dr. Ponce Set the VA on Fire (Accidentally)

Life has a funny way of teaching us lessons, and for Dr. Felipe Ponce de Leon, that lesson came in the form of a smoldering cigar and a very skeptical front desk receptionist at the Chillicothe VA Hospital.

Fresh from Cuba and establishing himself in his new position as a surgeon, Felipe held onto one particular habit from his homeland - his beloved cigars. These weren't just any cigars; they were his moments of peace between surgeries, his small connection to the life he'd left behind. On this particular day, during his break, he was enjoying one of these precious cigars, savoring it like any good Cuban would.

Now, being the frugal man that immigration had taught him to be, Felipe wasn't about to waste a perfectly good cigar just because his break was over. So he did what seemed perfectly logical at the time - he thought he'd extinguished it (narrator: he had not), slipped it into his white coat pocket, and stored the coat in his locker.

What happened next could only happen to a man whose reputation for humor preceded his reputation for emergencies.

As smoke began curling out of his locker, Felipe's medical training kicked in: identify the emergency, alert the proper authorities, handle the situation. Simple enough, right? Wrong.

Felipe ran to the front desk, his thick Cuban accent made even thicker by urgency: "¡The locker room is on fire! ¡The locker room is on fire!"

The front desk lady, who had been thoroughly entertained by Dr. Ponce's jokes and stories over the previous months, responded with a hearty laugh. "Oh, Dr. Poncey! You're so funny!"

"No, no, I'm serious! ¡Fuego! Fire!"

"Hahaha! You always have the best stories, Doctor!"

"¡Madre mía! This is not a joke!"

This back-and-forth continued like a comedy routine - except the smoke wasn't coming from his cigars anymore, but from the increasingly concerning fire in the locker room. Finally, as smoke began billowing under the door, the front desk lady's eyes widened in realization.

"OH MY GOD! THE LOCKER ROOM IS ON FIRE!"

To which Felipe, in what can only be described as peak deadpan delivery, responded: "That's what I've been trying to tell you!"

The fire department arrived quickly and managed to contain the blaze to just the locker area. As Felipe stood there, watching the firefighters douse his smoldering locker, he learned several valuable lessons:

1. Always make absolutely sure your cigar is completely out (preferably not in your pocket)

2. Perhaps being known as the hospital's resident comedian has its drawbacks

3. In case of future emergencies, leading with "This is not one of my jokes" might be wise

4. And most importantly, sometimes life's best lessons come with a side of smoke damage and a completely ruined white coat

To this day, whenever a Ponce de Leon family member tries to convince someone they're being serious, someone inevitably quips, "Oh sure, just like when Abuelto tried to tell them about the fire!" And somewhere, we're sure Felipe is still chuckling about the day his reputation for jokes nearly burned down the VA.

The irony wasn't lost on anyone that the one time Dr. Ponce de Leon wasn't joking was the one time nobody would believe him. As he later said, with his characteristic wit, "Next time I'll just pull the fire alarm - it's harder to laugh at a bell."

In the golden age of Cuban baseball, when forts and dungeons and ancient jails abounded within walking distance of Havana's finest hotels, our great-grandfather Pepe Conte earned his living with a pen, chronicling the national pastime for eager readers. As a respected sportswriter, he had built his reputation on telling the unvarnished truth about the game he loved—a trait that would lead to a memorable encounter with a young shortstop named Eusebio Gonzalez.

Eusebio, known as "Papo" to teammates and fans, would later make history as the first foreign-born Latino to play for the Boston Red Sox. But in 1910, he was just a 17-year-old rookie playing for the Fe baseball club at Havana's Almendares Park, struggling to find his footing in professional baseball.

Pepe had simply written what the statistics clearly showed. The young Gonzalez was having a rough start, going hitless in his debut (0-for-4 with two errors), followed by a 1-for-4 performance with three errors in his second game. In Pepe's assessment, he "was a lousy shortstop" who "averages two errors a game and could not hit the size of his sombrero."

In most places, such criticism might have earned a strongly worded letter to the editor. But this was Cuba, where baseball was religion and personal honor was everything. Gonzalez, nursing both his wounded pride and probably a few drinks at his favorite hangout, came across Pepe's article one evening. The scene that followed would become legendary in Cuban baseball lore.

Rising from his seat, the young infielder began thumping his chest in that distinctly Cuban fashion, shouting "¡Tengo mucho honor!" (I have much honor!) It was a declaration that historically had preceded countless interesting decisions in Cuban history, and this night would prove no exception.

What happened next demonstrated that while Gonzalez might not have been able to handle ground balls cleanly, he was quite capable of handling grievances directly. He went after Conte—a decision that would prove almost as ill-advised as his fielding technique. Pepe, showing that his aim was considerably better than Gonzalez's batting average, responded to the altercation by shooting him.

In most places, such an incident would have ended either in tragedy or a lengthy court battle. But this was Cuba, where even the most dramatic confrontations had a way of transforming into something else entirely. Rather than becoming bitter enemies, Pepe and Gonzalez did something that perfectly captured the unique spirit of Cuban baseball culture—they became good friends.

Years later, after Gonzalez had improved enough to earn his way to the major leagues and establish himself as a solid professional ballplayer, he would often join Pepe at the very same bar where their confrontation began, sharing drinks and laughs while retelling the story. He'd grown comfortable enough with his early struggles to join in the humor, freely admitting what all of Cuba already knew about his rookie season: he was, indeed, a lousy shortstop.

"All I wrote was that this fellow was a lousy shortstop," Pepe would recount with a characteristic twinkle in his eye, as Gonzalez nodded in amused agreement. The story became a favorite in Cuban baseball circles, a perfect illustration of how in their beloved game, even the fiercest conflicts could transform into friendship, and how sometimes the hardest truths were best served with a side of humor—and perhaps a few shared drinks.

The tale of Pepe Conte and Eusebio Gonzalez remains a testament to a unique era in Cuban baseball, when honor was everything, criticism could lead to confrontation, and yet somehow, through the magical alchemy of shared passion for the game, even the most dramatic conflicts could evolve into lasting friendships. It reminds us that in the Cuba of that era, baseball was more than just a sport—it was a stage where honor, truth, and reconciliation played out in ways that would seem almost impossible anywhere else.

After all, where else but in Cuban baseball could a critic shoot his subject, only to have both men later agree that the original criticism was entirely correct?

At the Chillicothe VA Hospital in the 1960s, where pressed white coats and sensible shoes echoed down long corridors, your grandfather Dr. Felipe Ponce de Leon had established himself as a respected surgeon. However, even accomplished surgeons need new shoes occasionally, which led to one of the family's more amusing tales of mistaken identity.

Felipe, who was known in the family for having notably small feet, had placed an order at the VA campus shoe store. Days turned into weeks, and no shoes appeared. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, he returned to the store to inquire about his order.

The counter clerk, shuffling through papers, found nothing. "I don't see any order here, sir."

Felipe, with his characteristic patience, asked to speak with the manager who had taken his original order. When the manager appeared, his face transformed from professional courtesy to mortified recognition.

"Dr. Ponce de Leon! I... I'm so sorry," the manager stammered.

It turned out that the manager, upon receiving an order from someone named "Ponce de Leon" with unusually small feet, had made quite an assumption. He'd simply filed the order away, convinced that it must have been from one of the patients in the mental ward. After all, who else but a confused patient would claim both such a romantic name as Ponce de Leon and such diminutive feet?

The manager, now facing not a delusional patient but rather one of the hospital's surgeons, quickly put the shoes on rush order. 

The incident perfectly captured the kind of assumptions Felipe often encountered as a Cuban immigrant in mid-century America - even his own workplace wasn't immune. But true to his nature, Felipe found the humor in it rather than taking offense. The story became one of his favorites to tell, delivered with his characteristic raised eyebrow and sly smile, always emphasizing the manager's face when he realized his mistake.

The tale served as a reminder that sometimes the most incredible thing about a story isn't a fanciful name or small feet - it's the assumptions people make about them. And perhaps, as Felipe would suggest with his typical wit, the real confusion lay not with the imagined patient, but with those too quick to judge based on a name and a shoe size.

Whenever family members tell this story today, they make sure to point out that yes, Felipe really did have surprisingly small feet - but an even bigger sense of humor about the whole affair. As he would often say, sometimes the best medicine isn't found in the operating room, but in learning to laugh at life's little misunderstandings.

And yes, he did eventually get his shoes - rush delivered, with the manager's profound apologies.