Deaf pitcher hopes to deliver inspiration

Kramer dated the low talker.

Elaine Benes dated the close talker.

Ketchner prefers to deal with clear talkers. It’s easier to read lips that way.

“He must be insinuating I enunciate properly,” Renteria said jokingly.

Mumblers don’t excite Ketchner. Can’t hear them. Can’t hear much of anything, which tends to be an advantage on those nights his fastball is up and so too are the voices of inebriated sorts sitting in the first few rows. The 10 percent of sound Ketchner is allowed from hearing aids produces more vibrations than actual words.

It’s a bad reality for hecklers but a beneficial one for a pitcher who has been deaf since birth. “It means,” Ketchner said, “I can focus more.”

His dream is the same as always, the same as when he was about to quit baseball in middle school as the taunts grew crueler, the same as when he was a 10th-round pick of Seattle in 2000, the same as when he made one start for Las Vegas at the end of the 2002 season and gave up just one run in seven innings. He wants to be the first deaf pitcher since 1908 to make the majors. He wants to be like Dummy Taylor of 99 years ago.

The 51s won’t face Ketchner in a four-game series that began at Cashman Field on Friday night, when the ability for anyone to actually see the action was worse than hearing it, given those bright orange throwback uniforms the local team unabashedly wore in a 7-6 loss.

Ketchner last pitched on Thursday and doesn’t have a win in five decisions this season, part of the problem being early-game struggles and part of it being spotty run support. He forgets to breathe properly. His teammates forget to hit.

But he just recently turned 25 and isn’t close to accepting any fate except one that eventually has him standing on a major league mound, hoping like crazy his catcher remembers to remove his mask when wandering out for a chat.

“Sometimes,” Ketchner said, “they forget and I’m like, ‘Hello, do you remember who I am?’ I have to read their lips.”

It’s not a deep list by any means, those who have overcome deafness to make the majors. Dummy Taylor did and played most of eight seasons with the New York Giants. Another Dummy, this one with the last name of Hoy, stole 607 bases for several teams between 1888 and 1902 and is actually the reason hand signals for calls such as “out” and “strike” were invented. Curtis Pride, an outfielder who doesn’t appear to be related to anyone named Dummy, has played parts of the last 11 seasons with six teams.

Hearing might not be the toughest obstacle for Ketchner receiving that coveted call from Portland, given how strong the pitching staff is in San Diego. But he is left-handed and alive, which means he’ll be given every opportunity by the Padres or anyone else.

This is a level of sports where someone with a disability can insist he be treated equally in the clubhouse and more than receive such treatment. This is the last step before five-star hotels and charter flights and food per diem that could pay for a month’s worth of your groceries. Guys tend to have one thing on their minds, and it’s not how to help the deaf teammate.

Which makes things so different with Portland.

“Everyone here loves (Ketchner) and looks out for him,” pitching coach Gary Lance said. “He doesn’t ask for it. He doesn’t demand it. I don’t know if he even likes it. But that’s the way it is.”

When the mechanics really break down and Ketchner is a mess out there and promising his manager and coach everything is fine when it really isn’t for a pitcher who missed the 2005 season with Tommy John surgery, Lance writes instructions on 3-by-5 cards so Ketchner can read them between innings.

SLOW DOWN. BREATHE.

You can understand why he gets so amped up, though. You can appreciate his determination.

“I want to be an inspiration to all deaf children,” Ketchner said. “I want to have a big effect on them.”

You wonder that if he does make it, that if he one day stands on that major league mound and the crowd begins to roar, if he will look across the mass of people and regret not hearing their cheers.

“Never,” he said. “I would think, ‘Isn’t this awesome?’ “

Ed Graney’s column is published Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. He can be reached at 383-4618 or egraney@reviewjournal.com.