Andy Murray, a reticent tennis champion hailing from Britain, is known for his subdued and occasionally surly demeanor off the court, quite a contrast to his impassioned display on field. Remembered for his films of frustrated reactions to misplaced shots, his career won’t be epitomized by these moments. Despite lacking an exuberant athletic flair and not always being the most gracious of media spokesmen, Murray stands as a unique jewel in British Tennis; an ornamented Olympian, double-time Wimbledon victor, and channelling the more cantankerous temperaments of the nation. Almost two decades into his professional tennis journey, he recently declared plans to exit the sport post his final participation in the Paris Olympics this year.
Experts, comparing him with legends like Nadal and Federer, remarked that he lacked the same physical prowess or finesse; that he was preordained to remain a step behind their league. Following his inaugural hip surgery in 2017, and subsequent insinuations about his retirement in 2019, these judgments appeared increasingly accurate as his fitness showed little promise of returning to its peak form. Murray, unlike the ‘demigods’ Nadal and Federer, seemed refreshingly human.
However, it isn’t Murray’s marginally lesser talent that prominent tennis figures that reveal his humanity, despite his impressive three grand slam titles. Instead, the complexity, drawn-out, and possibly reputation-damaging end to his professional life defines his human character. After withdrawing from the singles matches at his last Wimbledon, his failed doubles participation with his sibling further supports a less-than-optimistic prediction of his performance in Paris.
Recognising the right time to step back is indeed a rare quality, as one might gather from the examples of public figures such as Joe Biden and Andy Murray.
It appears, sadly, that having the wisdom to step back is not an attribute commonly found in humankind. The majority of highly accomplished individuals struggle to exit their careers with dignity, often tarnishing an otherwise impeccable legacy or, in worse cases, utterly ruining it. A case in point is Murray, who managed to retain some dignity, despite his rather awkwardly planned retirement from a dazzling tenure in tennis, in the midst of an Olympic tournament he was unlikely to triumph in. Yet, it won’t be this clumsy farewell that will define his memory.
When future narratives are constructed about his professional life, his curious embodiment of Britishness and his retirement will feature as mere footnotes.
Joe Biden’s departure from the spotlight of public life, on the other hand, probably stands as one of the most unsuccessful. As he announced his resignation to make way for Kamala Harris’s candidacy, many were quick to hail him as a patriotic hero. This concept of putting his country before his party or himself would indeed make for a praiseworthy legacy, nonetheless, it hardly fits his circumstances.
Biden’s decision to step away came far too late. Every moment he held onto the nomination, he inadvertently made it more difficult for the Democrats to defeat Donald Trump, handicapped his successor’s chances of establishing a strong position, and left a worryingly volatile world – arguably the most unstable since the Cold War era – at the mercy of an unpredictable and inward-looking Trump-Vance alliance.
Thus, describing Biden as a ‘hero’ in this context hardly seems appropriate. It’s quite unfortunate that his vast ambition would be the very cause of his legacy’s downfall. Despite being an effective president (a fact the voters rarely acknowledge), cherished during his stint as Obama’s vice president, and demonstrating commendable principles through personal tragedy, his actions potentially compromised the future of his nation.
His adamant decision not to relinquish office after his first term drove him to a point bound to be cryogenically frozen in the pages of history: that critical debate, in which he fumbled with his speech, jumbling his phrases and coming off as utterly diminished. Contrary to Murray, it seems that Biden’s final act – with its attendant presumption – will cast a long shadow over those future histories penned about him. It goes without saying that things needn’t have transpired so.
Detecting when one has hit their career’s lowest point or is languishing in their fame’s trenches is usually straightforward. However, recognising when you’ve reached your zenith seems to be a much more daunting endeavour: when there are no more barriers left to shatter, no loftier ranks to aim for, no second term waits for you, and no more prestigious titles to be won.
Quitting when you’re at your pinnacle is arguably a herculean task – one that quite a few have been unable to pull off. We often see celebrities’ careers culminate while they’re still at their prime due to premature death – a woe far outweighing an awkward end to a career.
Harper Lee could’ve been a unique case to assert this principle, had her book ‘Go Set A Watchman’ not been published a year before her passing, undermining what could’ve been the most flawless body of work in all literature: ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’. Martin Amis additionally argues that Homer boasts a flawless corpus of work, constrained to just ‘The Iliad’ and ‘The Odyssey’. With this in mind, we probably should express empathy towards Biden, Murray and those who struggle to recognise when and how to bow out: this, too, is a virtuous and rare skill.