Yet as he stood inside that cacophony of a celebratory clubhouse, sprays of champagne arcing over his head and beer dripping into his eyes, he could barely recall any of it.
“I so blacked out,” he said.
But the hours before the game? Those he remembered all too well.
That’s when the Boston faithful made a fatal error, hurling just enough insults his way, including some he said crossed the line, that the 24-year-old vowed he would make them regret it. And he did.
“This was personal for me,” he said. “Friends were talking some big smack after [Garrett] Crochet’s win [in Game 1]. People from Boston are saying a lot today as well. So for me, getting to Game 3, it’s personal for me. I don’t want to be the one that blows it for everyone. I had a really good opportunity to face a good lineup and end their season. Again, just bragging rights over everyone I know back home.
“I didn’t talk to my friends for two days. I’m definitely going to give them some lip after we get out of here. .. We’re aggressive back home. We’re going to try to get under peoples’ skin. They just picked the wrong guy to do it to, and the wrong team to do it to, as well.”
Welcome to the full Schlittler experience, where the calm, poised, and friendly clubhouse presence turns into something else on the mound.
“He’s a different guy out there, like a different character,” catcher Austin Wells said. “Something he unlocks, and it’s really cool to see him go out there. He’s a fun, joking guy, but when he’s on the mound, he’s a killer.”
On the mound, he’s the kid who played all those sports across Massachusetts gyms and fields, only giving up football after his freshman year at Walpole but continuing to use his 6-foot-6 frame on the basketball court in the winter season. On the mound, he’s the kid who worked under the watchful eye of his dad, John, also known as the Needham police chief, thrived under the guiding hand of his high school coach Chris Costello and his Northeastern coach Mike Glavine, always listening, always learning. On the mound, he’s the hard-working, steely-edged product of a city that prides itself on building thick skin and strong minds.
“Tough, gritty, competitive, that’s who we are,” Costello said over the phone after the game, just leaving the group of Walpole coaches who have gathered together to watch all of Schlittler’s major league starts. “Watching him tonight was surreal. It looked like the Cam who pitched against Braintree High School in 2018, where we just kept saying ‘send him out for another inning.” He was just so dominating.
“I’m not surprised he answered the bell.”
Schlittler wouldn’t let it end any other way.
Take it back to Wednesday night, as the Yankees filed out of the clubhouse with a Game 2 win. Manager Aaron Boone passed his Game 3 starter in the hall, and their quiet nod and quick exchange was all the confidence Boone needed the rookie would be just fine.
“Ready to roll?” he asked.
“Oh yeah,” came the reply.
Inning after inning Thursday night, Schlittler proved it. When his 100th pitch punctuated a strikeout of Wilyer Abreu to end the seventh, even his mom, Christine, thought he was done.
“I felt like I could finally exhale,” she said on the field after the game, only to laugh at her nerves when Boone sent him back out for the eighth.
But then, when the thunderous applause that came just six pitches later wrote the soundtrack to her son’s final walk to the dugout, she had to hold back tears.
“Like, surreal, really unbelievable,” she said. “We were hoping he’d have a good outing, that’s all you can hope for. Obviously we wanted them to win, to move on, but for him we’re hoping a good outing and then go from there. We were not expecting anything like this.”
Schlittler is the first pitcher in MLB history to toss at least eight scoreless innings and record at least 12 strikeouts without allowing a walk in a postseason game.
But now, it’s late, and Schlittler is cold, tired, and bereft of adrenaline. Shivering in his soaking wet pinstripes while the nighttime party on the Stadium’s chilly infield continues to thin out, he turns to his parents, beckons them to follow and heads toward the steps inside.
“I’m ready to go to bed,” he says.
“I can’t wait to watch that game again,” Christine adds as she follows. “I barely remember any of it.”
Like mother, like son. But her son remembered just enough, and the Sox paid the price. What a night.