The natural decline of our sporting heroes is not sad, only inevitable

There is, though, one wonderful, edifying characteristic that is a product of failure. It keeps one humble. There is is a belief that everyone is good at something. I tend to agree with that but will give it my full backing when I find that something, though I have hopes of an increasing predeliction to annoy people with my witterings.

My failures - repeated and widespread - have also given me a sense of reality, though one that is obviously diminished by advancing years and retreating brain cells.

It is why my response to the dimming of the lights of sporting greats is measured. The sight of Roger Federer slipping out of another major tournament to a player of lesser gifts was described to me this week as sad. I beg to differ. Sometimes, I beg to raise money but that is between me and my polysterene cup.

The fall of Fed is not sad but inevitable. Its impact is not to draw sympathy for a happily married man, with healthy children and tens of millions in the bank. Its lesson is about failure: how it persists, how it stalks even the greats.

Many judges believe Federer is the best tennis player of all time. It is an opinion held outside the legal profession, too. Yet the greatest grand slam tournament winner of all time has been judged a failure in the past, not least by himself. He had to overcome a turbulent personality that threatened to compromise, even negate, his talent. But he managed his temperament, forging it into something less likely to give aid to his opponent.

Instead, the great Swiss player used that extraordinary will to make his game more resilient, his body stronger and fitter.

It is possible to glimpse the petulant young adult of old when Federer loses. There is a reluctance to accept defeat as anything other than a personal failure. It is why Federer press conferences after a defeat are compulsory viewing. They are also happening with a weary regularity early in tournaments.

Another defeat this week, this time by Tommy Robredo in New York, was followed by a self-flagellation over how he had beaten himself. This is true. He made too many unforced errors; he converted too few break points. But there is a further truth. He is simply, and regularly, no longer the better player on the court and he knows this.

What makes Roger different is that he believes he can be the best again. This may be seen as a sign of mental illness so profound that it is normally restricted to those who write columns for Herald Sport on a Saturday. But this deeply held faith is an important part of the Federer psyche. It is what has driven him to the top, kept him there and bolstered him in the recurrent battles with Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal and Andy Murray.

Yet belief will not be enough to maintain his place in the rankings. He has to come to terms with sporting failure on a consistent basis. This weakening of the powers is universally felt by all of us, though in less public forums. But it must be especially hard to accept if one is simply and irrefutably great in one area.

It is the cruel disappearance of what was once both reliable yet spectacular. How must it feel to flit around a tennis court, despatching winners from every corner with every type of stroke? How must it feel to walk into a room and know that everyone, both player and spectator, regards one as impossibly brilliant?

How must if feel if that brilliance dims into something above dull mediocrity? This is a relative failure that has to be met inevitably that does not diminish its pain.

Marilyn Monroe once entertained the troops with a performance on foreign fields while her husband, Joe DiMaggio, the great baseball player, sat in the dressing room. After the show, an exultant Marilyn greeted her spouse with news of her loudly acclaimed success.

"Joe," she said, "you have never heard such roars."

"Yes I have," he replied.

Everybody fails. It is just that some of us are very good at it. It is all in the regular practice sessions.