MILWAUKEE—In the kind of raw, unfiltered moment that turns baseball immortals into mortal punchlines, Milwaukee Brewers manager Pat Murphy lit the fuse on what could be the most explosive controversy of the 2025 playoffs. With the echoes of a razor-thin 2-1 loss to the Los Angeles Dodgers still ringing in the hallowed halls of American Family Field, Murphy didn’t mince words, didn’t offer excuses, and sure as hell didn’t hold back. He marched straight to the microphone, eyes blazing like a man who’d just watched his life’s work evaporate in a puff of chalk dust, and publicly demanded that the National League force Dodgers flamethrower Cam Schlittler to submit to an immediate drug test. “This isn’t baseball,” Murphy thundered to a scrum of shell-shocked reporters, his voice cracking with the fury of a thousand rained-out tailgates. “It’s sorcery. Schlittler’s out there bending physics like he’s got rocket fuel in his veins. Test him. Now. Before he embarrasses the integrity of this game any further.”
The date was October 13, 2025—a night that started with promise and ended in Milwaukee’s collective nightmare. The Brewers, those scrappy underdogs who’d clawed their way to the NLCS with a franchise-record 97 wins and a chip-on-their-shoulder swagger, were riding high. Pat Murphy, the 66-year-old managerial wizard who’d transformed a ragtag roster into division conquerors on a shoestring $115 million payroll, had his boys primed. This was their shot, their revenge tour against the free-spending behemoth from Hollywood—the Dodgers, defending World Series champs bloated with a record $509.5 million in luxury-taxed talent. The Brewers had owned them all season, sweeping both three-game sets in July, outpitching and outhitting L.A. like they were playing Little League. But playoffs? That’s where the script flips, where the ghosts of 2018’s brutal NLCS defeat come back to haunt you with a Shohei Ohtani fastball to the gut.
Game 1 of the NLCS was supposed to be Murphy’s masterpiece. He tabbed ace Freddy Peralta to toe the rubber, a Cy Young contender who’d been lights-out in the Division Series clincher against the Cubs. The crowd of 41,000-plus—decked in cheesehead hats and Miller Lite foam fingers—roared like the Packers on Lambeau’s frozen tundra. But Schlittler, the 26-year-old phenom out of Northeastern University, turned the mound into his personal no-fly zone. The kid from Walpole, Massachusetts, who grew up idolizing Pedro Martinez and dreaming of Fenway glory, was dealing death: 7.2 innings, two hits, 11 strikeouts, zero walks. His fastball hummed at 99 mph, his slider bit like a Great White off the California coast, and his changeup? It painted corners so precisely you’d swear he had a GPS in his glove. The Brewers managed a solo homer from Christian Yelich in the fifth—a majestic blast that kissed the second deck—but it was all for naught. Mookie Betts, that eternal thorn in Milwaukee’s side, scorched a two-run double in the third off a hanging curve, and that was that. 2-1, Dodgers. Silence fell over the ballpark like a lead blanket.
