If honesty were a sport, Glyn Turner would already have an Olympic medal in it—possibly two. Known to the rest of us as Ginner, he’s the kind of man who thinks tact is a foreign language and diplomacy is for boxers who haven’t made weight. He doesn’t do quiet. He doesn’t do subtle. He doesn’t do anything below 85 decibels.

he’s spent the last 25 years inhaling boxing and exhaling truth at top volume, but that’s misleading. Boxing is not something he does. It’s something he is. He is the bone marrow of Chesterfield ABC. He’s a matchmaker for the East Midlands. He’s an unofficial therapist, driver, adviser, critic, water-carrier, gumshield-supplier, moral compass and emotional firework display. Often all in the same afternoon.

And he does it for free.

Yes. Free. No invoice. Just one man, one phone, and one borderline-obsessive commitment to making sure your 52kg novice gets a fair bout in Hull next Saturday.

You might find Ginner in a car park yelling down the phone at a coach who just pulled out, while simultaneously wrapping a boxer’s hands and explaining, in alarming detail, how he once fell off a roof in 2006. None of this is unusual. This is just a Tuesday.

He’s the sort of man who will argue with you until his cheeks go red and his veins start sketching the A-roads of Derbyshire across his forehead—and then he’ll offer to drive you home and buy you a sausage cob on the way.

I once saw him give tactical advice to a boxer from the other corner. “He drops his lead—hit him with the overhand, it’ll land every time.” His own lad heard it, panicked, and spent the next three rounds guarding that lead hand like it was a winning lottery ticket. Won the fight, too. Ginner didn’t care about the win. He cared that the lad listened.

Because that’s the thing. He doesn’t worship results. He worships effort. Discipline. Learning. If you win but box like a prat, expect a verbal dismantling. If you lose but do your best and cary out instruction, he’ll carry you back to the changing room like a champion.

He’s also the most unselfconscious man alive. He’s not there to build egos. He’s there to build boxers.. He’ll give feedback to an international coach the same way he would to a kid in a t-shirt and school shoes. Rank and title don’t register with him. He respects work, not lanyards.

And he won’t pose for a photo. Not with a famous boxer, not with a mayor, not even with someone important from England Boxing unless they’re holding a mop. You’ll never see him grinning next to some World Champion like he’s just won a raffle. The only time he smiles is when one of his boxers does the job properly. That’s it. That’s his photo-op.

Now let’s talk about service. Ginner serves on the East Midlands Council, where he’s a fixture. Not because it flatters him. It doesn’t. Half the time it infuriates him. But because he believes in doing what’s right. Even when it costs him. Especially when it costs him. He’ll call out nonsense if it’s coming from the top table or the back row. He doesn’t care who’s speaking—he only cares what’s being said.

He’ll fight, argue, refuse to bend if he thinks something’s wrong. He’ll make enemies. He’ll lose votes. And he’ll sleep like a baby because he knows he was right.

And then there’s Sharon—his wife. Thirty four years married. 34. Not days. Not weeks. Years. Decades of sacrifice, patience.

One day in Bristol, over a box cup coffee, he casually mentioned it was his 30th wedding anniversary. I blinked. “Why are you here and not out to dinner with your wife?”. He looked surprised by the question. “Well, I gave our lass some money so she can go out celebrating.” What a romantic. The kind of man who’d take a lad to Sparring Sunday in Wakefield and send his wife a thumbs-up emoji by way of a love letter. A modern-day Casanova, if Casanova had a broad Derbyshire accent and thought a box cup was a better use of his time than a table for two.

But here’s the truth: she must love him. We all do. Not despite the shouting and the chaos and the fact he packs for away shows like he’s invading Normandy. Because of it. She sees what we all see.

That under the noise, under the fight, under the 5-foot frame and the badly parked car and the misplaced gumshield is one of the best men in boxing. Honest to a fault. Loyal to a fault. And allergic to anything that smells remotely like ego.
Most things are bigger than him. But very few are better than him.

He’s the man who’ll turn up at a rival club just to help another coach in the corner. He’s the man who’ll drive across counties to deliver one gumshield so someone else’s kid doesn’t miss a fight. He’s the man who’ll never once ask for credit—and would be furious if you gave him any.

But sod it. We’re giving him some anyway. He’s honest to a fault. Loyal to the bone. And far too loud to ever be ignored. You might not always agree with Ginner—but you always know exactly where he stands.

And wherever that is, you’re probably better off standing next to him.

Because if you’ve got Ginner in your club, in your region, or in your corner—then you’ve already won