Federer
When I was at Harvard, I was thrilled to take one particular class in The History of Science department. It was taught by I. Bernard Cohen, the founder of the department. Not only did he found Harvard’s world-class department in the history of science, but he also played a prominent role in the creation of history of science departments the world over. Before Cohen, no universities offered degrees in the history of science; now, such degrees can be found at many major universities. And yes, one of my Harvard degrees is a graduate degree in The History of Science.
When I arrived on campus, Cohen had already retired. He came to campus one semester every year or so to teach a course on The Scientific Revolution. At least that is my recollection. Forgive me if that is not entirely accurate; it was so long ago…
I will never forget what happened on the first day of class. Cohen walked through the door, and all activity stopped. The man was a legend, and he commanded the respect of all the students. Without uttering a word, he began to write on the blackboard. The chalk did not make a sound as he chronicled the discoveries of Issac Newton (a man that I am nearly certain did not contain human DNA). I, of course, held my breath as I wrote everything down in my notebook.
My memory of what happened next is vivid. Cohen silently wrote out 17 discoveries attributed to Newton on the blackboard. As he finished the last of his notations, he turned to the students and spoke. This is what he said:
“Erase any 16 of these, and Sir Issac Newton would still be the most important and most brilliant scientist that ever lived.”
I remember leaning back in my seat and saying, “damn….”
During the semester, I talked with a number of the junior faculty about Cohen. They all said that he hadn’t lost a step. A number of them commented that he still had a photographic memory. One man, a university dean, told me how terrified of Cohen he was when he was his student. He said that he would wake up in the middle of the night from the same recurring nightmare. In his dream, he would reference Cohen with a comma and not a period. He would write, “I, Bernard Cohen, instead of I. Bernard Cohen.” He told me that Cohen’s students often talked about what the “I” stood for. I asked the dean if anyone ever asked Cohen about it. He said that was impossible. Cohen was not the kind of man that you would ask that sort of question to. And so it goes…
I remember being struck during the semester by what a scholar’s scholar Cohen was. He was a walking encyclopedia. He didn’t strike me as a person whose DNA needed to be tested to prove they were of human origin; he simply impressed me with the depth and breadth of his knowledge. He was an imposing figure, an impressive man.
One day, for reasons unknown, I was contemplating the nature of existence. I thought what a waste it was for all the knowledge Cohen had to die with him. Of course, he had volumes of published material anyone could reference, but I was thinking deeper than that. He would be gone one day, and so would all of his experiences and knowledge. His unique view, and the totality of his knowledge, would vanish into the ether.
During this same “deep think,” I remember considering that Cohen was a lot better at his job than Wade Boggs, the hall of fame third baseman who then played for the Red Sox, was at his. I still believe that is true even though no one would pay to watch Cohen write, but millions (including me) forked over plenty of ducats to see Boggs hit. I guess it is just human preference for one type of poetry over another.
Cohen, like all the professors I knew at Harvard, never really retired. When they took their retirement, they became free to get to the real work. All were lifelong learners. After doing a little research, it appears that Cohen published 13 books after his “retirement.” Not too shabby.
At this point, you might be wondering why this post is entitled “Federer” when all you have read about is a long-gone historian of science. Now that the lede has been sufficiently buried, I can get to the business of this essay. I. Bernard Cohen, a man that might have been better at his job than Roger Federer is at his, never declined. Sure, maybe he wasn’t as sharp at 85 as he was at 30, but he remained vital and productive his entire life. As for Federer…such is the lot of the athlete.
I remember watching Federer play tennis in his prime. Sublime is the only word that comes to mind. To see him glide around the court was memorable; to watch him toy with the best players in the world left me speechless. He was the best I have ever seen.
Yesterday I was forced to watch Federer lose badly at Wimbledon. A shell of his former self, I was distraught and embarrassed for him. At nearly 40, time has grabbed him and roughed him up. I hate when that happens.
What has happened to Roger Federer is not new or unusual. One of the things I hate most in the world is to see the people I suspected of being immortal drop their guard and reveal their true selves. Currently, Clayton Kershaw, the L.A. Dodgers pitcher, is going through the same thing. He is no longer transcendent; he throws a baseball more or less like a normal human. I am sad to see it. This is a man who was on pace to be the greatest pitcher of all time. Now he is merely an ordinary future Hall of Famer, a pedestrian representation of human excellence. A few years ago, he was something else entirely.
And that brings us to a discussion about how aging affects people in different professions. There is definitely a sweet spot for athletes. It is a time when mental and physical abilities are at their peak. Historically this happens in a person’s late 20s to early 30s. After that time, concentration lapses, and athletic ability begins its decline. The window for peak performance tends to be brief, at least for nearly all athletes.
The same is true for mathematicians and physicists. Most all of the great discoveries throughout history are attributed to young people. The major exception is when a person changes fields of study. When this happens, the universe allows those slightly older to discover something novel and astonishing.
Of course, the universe treats famous athletes and first-rate scientists differently from the general population. Most of us can decline on our own time, in our own private way. The reminders of our own mortality are much more subtle and nuanced and generally not available for public consumption. My only hope is that when I think of Federer, I remember the young version, the greatest tennis player I have ever seen. I somehow want to forget the time-altered imposter I saw the other day. After all, we all deserve at least as much.
