I'm not a big sports fan.

Harlan Coben, the master of mystery and suspense, once confessed, “I’m not a big sports fan.” At first, such a statement seems small, even casual, in a world where arenas roar with millions and games are treated as sacred rituals. Yet within these few words lies a profound reminder: that greatness does not always spring from the passions of the crowd, and that one may choose a different path without shame or regret. For to admit that one is not enthralled by what enthralls the masses is to claim the strength of individuality, the courage to walk apart.

The ancients themselves taught us that not all men are drawn to the same fires. Some sought glory in battle, others in music, others in philosophy, and still others in the quiet pursuit of craft. To declare “I’m not a big sports fan” is not to belittle sport, but to acknowledge that the heart is guided by its own compass. What moves one soul deeply may leave another untouched. And in this difference lies the beauty of humanity: we are not bound to the same joys, but to the freedom of choosing our own.

History shows us many who walked against the grain. Albert Einstein, one of the greatest minds of all ages, cared little for games of the field. His joy was in equations, in music, in the mysteries of the cosmos. Others mocked his clumsiness with the ball, but he laughed, for he had discovered what truly moved him. Likewise, Harlan Coben—who fills the world with stories that twist and awaken the imagination—need not cheer from the bleachers, for his stadium is the page, and his victories are the minds he enthralls.

The emotional power of such a statement lies in its humility. To admit that one is not seized by the fervor of the crowd is to risk seeming apart, even strange. Yet this is precisely where strength lies: in the honesty of acknowledging one’s own passions, even when they differ from the multitude. For the crowd will always cry for conformity—be it in games, in fashion, or in thought—but the wise remember that to be true to oneself is nobler than to follow blindly.

The lesson is not to reject sports themselves, nor to mock those who love them, but to remember that life is vast, and meaning may be found in many forms. Some find purpose in the clash of athletes, others in the weave of words, the brush of paint, the sound of song, or the silence of prayer. To live fully is to honor your own calling while respecting the callings of others. Just as the athlete trains his body, the writer trains his imagination, and both enrich the world in their own way.

For the seeker of wisdom, the message is clear: do not be ashamed of what does not move you. Instead, seek deeply what does. If you are not drawn to games of the stadium, then find the games of the mind, or the labors of the spirit. Let your heart tell you where to dwell, and follow it without fear. The world has need of many gifts, not only one.

What then must we do? Live truthfully. Do not feign passions you do not feel, for falsehood only leads to weariness. Instead, cultivate your true joys, and give them fully to the world. Celebrate sports if they move you, but celebrate equally the written word, the pursuit of science, the work of kindness, the making of beauty. In this diversity lies the true wealth of humanity.

Thus Harlan Coben’s quiet confession becomes a timeless teaching: you need not love what all others love—only what is true to you. For greatness is not found in imitating the crowd, but in following the flame that burns uniquely within your own soul. Respect the passions of others, but honor your own. In this way, you will live not as a shadow among the many, but as a light unto yourself.