Bobby walks into an elderly living facility.

"Hello, Mr. Bourbon!"

A nurse greets him familiarly; he's been here hundreds of times before judging by the raport.

"How's my mom?"

Bobby looks far more concerned than he had ever been before.

"She’s okay, but she’s been off in her own world again."

Bobby’s demeanor sinks, slinks, and hits the pits, without kinks at the bottom his mood sits.

"This way, Mr. Bourbon."

Bobby walks along, his massive shoulders slumped as he carried a dozen roses. The crowd of the old folks home paid no mind to the figure he imposes. He approached a lone table, secluded yet sunlit, and he looked all the more sheepish his bottom lip he had bit. A singular, sadly, forlorn woman gazed out...

"Hey mom."

It was Bobby’s mother, no doubt. She turned, her face pale, unimpressed, unmoved, and most stern, as Bobby’s mug twisted to utter concern.

"Bobby. Your neices and nephews are upset, and why haven't you given me grandkids yet? You lost to that British boy, and to that much I say, you let down the U.S.A. on that day!"

Bobby’s mom pivots away from him.