Tuned In: Moose Cuellar Doesn't Hear the Noise, and Doesn't Need To

By: Julianne Shivers/SLO Blues

Games get loud at Sinsheimer Stadium. Kids run around asking for foul balls and autographs, both beer trailers serve $3 Miller Lites and Coors Banquets when the Blues score, and interns are stationed around the park to point lost fans toward the marketing tent. Hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people pack the stands, looking for something to do on a summer night in San Luis Obispo, California.

One player on the field doesn't let the noise get to him. Not because he's tuning it out. Most of the time, with his hearing aids dialed in and his focus narrowed to a single point, there's nothing for Justin "Moose" Cuellar to tune out in the first place.

"Everything goes quiet when I'm focused and locked in," Cuellar said.

It's an odd thing to hear from a pitcher who's spent his whole life explaining himself: why he wears hearing aids, why people call him Moose instead of Justin, why he left UCLA for Fresno State. Cuellar has never treated his hearing loss as something to overcome. It's always just been part of the deal, present since he was 3 years old, the same age he picked up a baseball for the first time in his backyard. Two facts that have nothing to do with each other, except that neither one ever felt, to him, like something separate from who he is.

Justin, better known as Moose, is a left-handed pitcher from Tulare, California, in his second season with the Fresno State Bulldogs. He got his nickname from his mom, who as a kid thought he was built like a moose, and it stuck. He's the son of Justin and Lupita Cuellar, twin brother to Jace and younger brother to Jeslyn.

This season, Cuellar has worked to a 2.79 ERA in six appearances and 19⅓ innings pitched. He's continued to improve with every outing. In his last start against the Arroyo Seco Saints on June 26, Cuellar pitched 5⅓ scoreless innings, allowing one hit, striking out three and picking up his second win of the season.

Cuellar holds the strikeout record at his alma mater, Tulare Western High School, with 373 strikeouts. Cuellar has worked to make sure he's known for more than his hearing aids. His deafness isn't an issue he manages. It's just his life.

Cuellar started wearing hearing aids at age 3. It was never something that defined him. When asked why he chose baseball, it wasn't much of a question for him. His dad built a Wiffle ball field for him and his siblings in the backyard, and he fell in love with the sport almost immediately. His sister, who plays softball at Cal State East Bay, found a similar love in that same backyard.

"I found a love for it so fast," Cuellar said. "I just kind of knew that [baseball is what] I wanted to do when I grew up. It's just my life, basically."

His love for the game has never wavered, even through struggles on the mound or with communication. Some umpires make calls he disagrees with. Sometimes sweat interferes with his hearing aids. He's had to learn to adapt to both.

Pitchers and catchers need a strong connection in baseball. Together, they're known as "the battery," the heartbeat of the game. The hearing part has never been the issue for Cuellar; between signs, sight and feel for the game, the only real concern is mechanical failure in-game.

One example of the trust Cuellar places in his catcher came in a high school playoff game. His catcher overruled the pitch Cuellar wanted to throw on a 2-2 count. Cuellar trusted the call instead of his own instinct, and the pitch worked. They won the game.

"That taught me you should always trust your catcher," Cuellar said.

Trust is a constant in baseball: in catchers, in defense, in coaches. It takes trust in the whole team to win together. For Cuellar, that trust extends inward, to trusting his training, his mechanics and his mind to slow down when the moment gets big. Slowing down and focusing is one of the biggest parts of his routine.

Being on the mound is often compared to standing on an island alone. Staying concentrated with runners on base and the game on the line takes real discipline. Cuellar leans on slowing the game down and breathing through difficult situations.

"I just try to stay concentrated, not move around too crazy," Cuellar said. "Just really slowing things down and calming yourself, relax."

The biggest thing for Cuellar is staying present and staying true to who he is. Without the distraction of the crowd, he can stay fully tuned into the game, just him and the mound.

He doesn't only focus on himself; he tries to be a helping hand to others in the dugout and stays a coachable player. In a June 21 game against the Santa Barbara Foresters, Cuellar pitched three innings, giving up three runs and five hits, in a 6-2 loss. He said afterward that he struggled with his pitch sequencing.

"I had a long conversation with Dean [Treanor] about what I need to work on," Cuellar said. "He said I need to understand more sequences."

Heading into his next start against the Saints, Cuellar focused on improving his sequencing, and the better result left him proud of the outing. Learning from mistakes and correcting them the next time out is, by his own account, who he is as a player.

Coming out of high school, Cuellar was ranked the No. 10 left-handed pitcher in California, with offers from Arizona State, Oregon, Long Beach State, UCLA and others. That kind of attention can get into an athlete's head. It never did for Cuellar.

"I wasn't too focused on the rankings," Cuellar said. "I cared more about being myself out there, just true."

Cuellar committed to UCLA out of high school but redshirted his first year without making a single appearance. He felt like he'd fallen behind and knew he wasn't going to get the opportunities to pitch that he wanted. He entered the transfer portal after his freshman year and landed closer to home at Fresno State. The redshirt year taught him plenty and reshaped his mentality.

"I think I learned that you've got to just be ready at this level," Cuellar said. "You have to be out there to play and really work to earn the spots."

Cuellar doesn't credit only his family for the work he puts into baseball. He credits God. Trusting there's a bigger plan than the one he could make for himself is a major reason he shows up and works every day.

"Whatever happens, happens," Cuellar said. "That's going to teach you and help you become better and grow closer with the Lord."

He strives to be a better person day by day. Prayer is part of his daily routine, for his family, teammates, coaches and everyone in his life.

"It's more than just baseball," Cuellar said.

He carries a never-give-up mentality modeled in part after Kobe Bryant. Bryant's attitude toward losses and adversity has shaped how Cuellar tries to handle his own tough stretches. He points to a number of people and beliefs for his strength and support in life.

For Cuellar, his life doesn't revolve around being deaf. It's about how he chooses to handle the added challenge. Even failure on the mound becomes a lesson to learn and grow from, rather than something that defines him.

Cuellar credits his family as some of the biggest supporters and motivators in his life, though his parents have shown up for him in different ways. His mom has been his emotional anchor, the one who taught him how to handle the overwhelm and stress that came with getting hearing aids as a kid, and who's stayed in that role ever since, helping him navigate life off the field.

"When I didn't understand what a person was telling me, she would always be there to say, 'There's nothing to worry about,'" Cuellar said. "She taught me a lot of things to understand in life situations."

His dad has played a different role, less about reassurance, more about pushing him forward. He's seen firsthand what it's like for Moose to struggle hearing infielders chatter across the diamond, and he's never let that become an excuse.

"He teaches me how to inspire a lot of people," Cuellar said. "He teaches me how to be a better man; he wants me to be me."

That last phrase is the one that sticks. Not better than he is, just himself. It's the same idea that's followed Cuellar since he got his first hearing aid at age 3: the things he can't control aren't his problem to solve. He can't control whether an umpire calls a borderline pitch a ball or a strike. He can't control whether his hearing aid holds up through nine innings of sweat. What he can control is how he responds, to a missed call, a bad outing, a question from a stranger.

It's the same quiet that shows up when he's locked in on the mound, crowd noise fading into nothing. Not silence caused by what he can't hear. Focus, built by someone who decided long ago not to let the things outside his control define what's inside it.