by Trey Nosrac

Waiting for the first pitch of a minor league baseball game between the Fort Myers Mighty Mussels and the Daytona Tortugas, I began chatting to a strange fellow seated near me who looked like he was in town for a Grateful Dead reunion. He was a wiry guy, maybe 60, with long scraggly grey hair and flip-flops, wearing a well-worn t-shirt that read “A Day Without Baseball Will Probably Not Kill Me, But Why Risk It?”

We bantered easily about the current crop of Tortuga players, places to get a good pizza and hometowns (he was born in Juneau, AK) and then drifted into pastimes and hobbies. I threw out “harness racing.” His eyes glazed over as if he was experiencing an acid flashback. His pause forced me to pantomime, grabbing a pair of invisible reins, shaking them and saying, “horses, racing.” My performance did not generate a response, he appeared to be unfamiliar with our sport, so I quickly asked, “What about you?”

He said, “Guitars.”

Having played bass guitar in a garage band, The Mad Mushrooms of Mulhern Drive, I was familiar with the instrument. Before I could ask him for clarification, he filled the gap and clarified for the next 15 minutes. The guy — we never exchanged names — built custom guitars using wood from forests in exotic places. He hardly took a breath and talked about tonality, hardwoods, travels and how he marketed some of them on the Internet. He mentioned a few rock guitarists that were clients, but I had never heard of them or their bands.

When he finally took a break in his monologue, I asked, “Acoustic or electric?”

My simple question was not so simple. Guitar man began another long ramble about economics, “I do some electrics for sales purposes, but my preference for creating and playing would always be eight-string acoustics made from Brazilian hardwood.”

While most of his guitar details went over my head, his excitement was contagious. If he invited me to his basement workshop to watch him turn a tree into a tune, Trey would go. Here was a person who found his niche and was gleefully lost doing his thing. After the tape-recorded National Anthem, I settled into my seat and wondered about two things.

What was the origin of the word — niche?

How could I have better explained my passion for harness racing to guitar man?

The term niche was a quick etymology search. The Latin word nidus (nest) was messed around by French folks and morphed into nicher (to make a nest) and eventually niche (which refers to a recess in a wall). I like the nesting angle. It fits people who find a pastime where they feel safe and happy, like guitar man and people involved in harness racing.

Then, I pondered how I could have introduced harness racing to guitar man less ponderously since my simple reply meant nothing to him. I muffed a chance to promote our sport. At the top of the third inning, a sudden summer rain blew into the ballpark, driving players and fans to shelter. I stood beside the guitar man next to the funnel cart on the concourse.

He gave me another chance when my new friend asked, “So what’s with your horse thing?”

I was ready this time with my new approach, “You make guitars. I make racehorses. I grow a young horse each year.”

He widened his eyes, gave a tiny nod, and said, “No shit?”

“Oh, trust me, manure is involved.”

He smiled, showing several missing teeth, “So you race them?”

“I try to sell the baby horse, but if not, I try to race it against other horses of the same age and sex. I will find it a good home if I still own the horse at age 3. The process is a lot of fun. Every horse is a story that allows me to play a part.”

My revised explanation did not scare him off. Guitar man asked me a series of simple questions; where did the horse live, how much did it cost monthly and did I get emotionally attached to a young horse? Can horses come in twins or triplets? Could I wager on my horse? He appeared interested in harness racing for a full five minutes. Still, soon he segued back into his passion and went on a rant about shipping and storing guitars, with profound scorn for people who ignore humidity changes.

The rain stopped. The ballgame resumed.

After the game, guitar man and I strolled toward the parking lot. He pointed down Beale Street and told me he had walked to the ballpark. We said goodbye. He disappeared into the warm darkness of the palm-lined street. Nice evening. We both learned a little about each other and learned about each other’s passions, and we both had our niche.

Lucky guys.