We all know the story of Ralphie and his craving of a Red Ryder air rifle for Christmas in 1930s Cleveland. It’s fun and fiction and ends, albeit after some plot twists and turns, with the 10-year-old boy blissful, laying in bed beside his new BB gun.

Now picture this: Same era in Seattle. Preteen boy in Mount Baker awakes on Boxing Day, hoping his Christmas present was just a bad dream. But no, there it is, on the floor. A misshapen skin of leather wrapped around a rubber bladder. A new ball, all right. Yet Robert’s parents had got it all wrong.

Alexander MacDonald, Robert’s father, must have meant well. The then-fiftysomething Scot had grown up in the outskirts of Glasgow, learned the shipbuilding trade on the River Clyde and later built ships for the Australian navy on the Duwamish. He was described as a stern, humorless man, but not mean-spirited.

No, Alexander MacDonald was raised on association football and even in his adopted city, many of the industrial workers played in state league matches on the Woodland Park pitch each weekend.

However his firstborn son, Robert, had grown up worshipping the gridiron version of the game as it was interpreted by the Washington Huskies of Jimmy Phelan. Robert no doubt had visions of bringing his new ball to meet friends for some Boxing Day tackle at the park. But there would be no joy at that Mudville.

Robert asked for a prolate spheroid and got himself a round one. A futbol instead of a football.

Robert, my uncle, was sharing this story 45 years later. I was a UW freshman and asked him to a Sounders friendly versus apparently quite unfashionable Bristol City. Less than 4,000 people and one goal showed up.

It was a dull game, and here was Uncle Bob’s soccer story of choice. I could still hear the disappointment in his voice. Soccer was not, and never would be, his game.

Red hair, baldness and other traits sometimes skip a generation. Maybe that is the case of soccer among the MacDonalds, for I’ve fallen for it.

My mom and dad didn’t show much interest in soccer. Still, Mom was an enthusiastic and expert shopper and gift-giver. I was blessed with great gifts for birthdays and Christmas all the while she walked the earth.

When I was into skiing, when I was into basketball, when I was into football and tennis, she would always find just what I needed. And when I caught soccer fever, never mind the fact we lived 90 miles from a proper soccer shop, she made it her mission to get just what I needed.

Without Google or Mapquest she found her way to Sports Specialties and Sporthaus Schmetzer. I would love to have heard her tell Denzil what was on my list. She always got it right. The one time I thought she’d forgotten I needed new Pumas, it turned out she had simply forgotten to get the cleats under the tree; they materialized late on Christmas night.

My hope is that all kids from 5 to 90 got what they wanted this holiday season, whether it was the visit of a loved one or the very thing you longed for. And if not, as in the case of Uncle Bob, hopefully the giver meant well. And included the receipt.

Many happy returns.