You can get too close as a team. You need time away from each

Glenn Turner, the cricketer of stern discipline and clear vision, once declared: “You can get too close as a team. You need time away from each other. You change in the same dressing room, you play on the same cricket field, you stay in the same hotel, you travel in the same planes and buses. C’mon – this business of everyone holding hands and being pally is nonsense.” In this sharp remark lies a wisdom that reaches beyond sport: that harmony does not mean constant closeness, and that strength among companions is not built through endless togetherness, but through the balance of distance and individuality.

When Turner speaks of being too close as a team, he does not deny the importance of unity. He knows well that victories are born from trust and cooperation. But he warns that over-familiarity breeds fatigue, tension, and even resentment. To live in constant proximity—sharing rooms, meals, and journeys—is to risk wearing down the bonds that should remain strong. Just as iron sharpeneth iron, so too must companions sometimes step apart, lest the constant friction dull rather than hone their edge.

This lesson is ancient. The Spartans, famed for their discipline, lived as brothers-in-arms, yet even they knew the value of solitude. Soldiers would retreat to training or reflection alone, preserving a measure of inner space. The same was true among the samurai of Japan, who often balanced camaraderie with long periods of personal study and meditation. Their brotherhood was forged not by clinging endlessly to each other, but by respecting the individuality that each warrior carried into battle.

History shows also the dangers of ignoring Turner’s warning. Consider the ill-fated Antarctic expedition of Robert Falcon Scott. His men endured not only the brutality of the ice, but also the wear of constant nearness under impossible conditions. With no reprieve, their spirits frayed, their unity strained, until the bonds of brotherhood could not withstand the crushing trials. They had courage, they had skill, but the ceaseless closeness without relief deepened their despair. From this tragedy we learn that even the bravest of teams require space to breathe.

Turner’s dismissal of “everyone holding hands and being pally” speaks to the difference between true unity and false sentiment. Brotherhood is not about endless displays of cheer and shallow harmony. It is forged in respect, in shared struggle, in the willingness to stand together when needed and apart when necessary. Forced closeness is not love; it is suffocation. True comradeship endures distance and silence, for it is built on deeper foundations than constant chatter.

The lesson, then, is clear: in teams, in families, in friendships, cherish both togetherness and distance. Too much solitude breeds isolation, but too much nearness erodes affection. The wise soul balances these, giving space when space is needed, and returning to unity with renewed strength. A team is not strongest when always together, but when its members, strong in themselves, choose freely to come together for a shared purpose.

Practically, this means granting yourself and others the grace of separation. Do not demand constant closeness as proof of loyalty. Allow companions time apart, and trust that respect and unity will not diminish but deepen. Like the bowstring, always pulled taut, a team that is never allowed to relax will eventually snap. But one that rests when needed will bend, release, and endure.

So, O listener, remember Glenn Turner’s wisdom: you may share fields, journeys, and victories, but do not fear distance. True unity is not in constant presence, but in the ability to part and return stronger. Avoid the trap of false harmony, and instead build bonds of respect that endure absence as well as presence. In this balance lies the secret of teams that last, of friendships that do not fade, and of brotherhoods that stand the test of time.