Posted October 9

It is the Turner family of whom I write. If there is another family that has provided three national representatives in three different codes I have yet to hear of it. Not so many sports fans realise that eldest brother Brian played hockey for New Zealand, for his fame largely lies in his writings, particularly poetry.

As a poet Turner must rank among this country's finest. I do not profess to understand poetry exactly, but I find Brian's verse spellbinding. The shorter pieces are particularly lyrical and evocative.

These scions sprang from a hardy Dunedin couple whose own sports and recreational activities were considerable. Both are golfers and bridge players and Alf was a first-class cricket umpire whom I met but once and who proved to be tough and intractable. We were at Carisbrook while New Zealand met the West Indies in a One Day International. There was some debate over the merits of Phil Horne as an international batsman. In no uncertain terms Alf proclaimed that he wouldn't be good enough to manage double figures, to which I responded with a five dollar wager that he would.

Phil made 17 classy runs so I claimed my bet. There was difficulty over the semantics. It was considered that the 17 were all off the edge and were worth less than double figures in anyone's book. The five dollars stayed at home. Brian was witness to this but stayed clear apart from shaking with mirth at the outcome. He seemed to have a lateral attitude to everything, despising any mode of transport but his cycle, indifferent to any of the products of King C. Gillette. He viewed the proceedings with a detached cynicism, only broken when the great Viv Richards savaged the hapless Richard Hadlee.

It was unique, seeing the world's greatest batsman take apart the world's greatest bowler. The small square boundaries at Carisbrook helped but it was apparent that Brian, like his father, was impressed with Viv's onslaught. I have searched but not found a poetic tribute from Brian to the occasion.

Glenn is the master analyst. He built his own game on a sound defensive technique and then added some original touches. The flat bat stroke that brought up his 1000 runs in May 1973 was daring. Most players deemed a stroke to a very wide ball too risky, too likely to snick, but Glenn saw in it a chance to play a splendidly timed horizontal stroke that left the field helpless.

He developed an uncanny ability to place the ball in the air between fielders. This trait took him into the forefront of opening batsmen in limited overs games. He became a specialist whose undertaking was to score runs, as quickly and painlessly as possible.

At Eden Park in 1983 my son Jeff was playing his first match for Auckland after four seasons in the ultra-hardened Sheffield Shield competition for South Australia. Glenn opened the batting for Otago on the first morning of a regular three day match to which 5000 spectators arrived. In less than an hour Glenn had made 55 runs before nicking to Jeff who caught the ball and ran to his team mates demanding to know if that was the way first-class cricket was played here? All the runs were made with lofted shots over the bowler's head or between the fielders normally patrolling the covers and mid-wicket regions.

Those fine bowlers Troup and Snedden, as well as the parsimonious Warren Stott, came in for some stick until the first fatal error of stroke.

Glenn thought about the game more than most. Only a reserved nature and a closed mindset stopped him from sharing in the joy of his achievements. He did much of his work behind the scenes. When Martin, still shell-shocked after a nightmare start to his test career, wrote to Glenn in England in 1982 he hoped for an ultimate reply to his questions, which were basically how do I play tests? He received a reply by return, handwritten over twelve pages, setting a blueprint for any aspiring young player. He has helped many others thus.

Glenn is a cricketing pariah in his own country, apart from his limpid, articulate television commentaries. He supports his wife, the Mayor of Dunedin, as she grapples with politics and the antics of such diverse campaigners as Labour's Stan Rodger and my conservative old workmate Richard Walls. Richard has been an expert practising magician for most of his life (I am not making this up) but I doubt his sleight of hand will fox the astute Glenn Turner. Younger brother Greg is the most charismatic. What a lovely fellow! Cheerful, optimistic, a great front runner. He has never lost a golf tournament when he has lead into the final day (until the recent Belgian Open where he lead into the last round but finished third) and that is seven times. I have had the pleasure of his company at both his home and mine and it is always a delight. As the evening wears on Greg becomes more and more eloquent. In the end everyone sits back and listens, interjections forgotten, as he holds court on any worthwhile subject.

The Turner brothers, remarkable, distinguished. Greg, the extrovert golfer of the stylish swing and even lovelier manner; Glenn the introspective analyst and pragmatist; Brian, the enigmatic, intellectual lyricist. I salute you all.

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