The worst of us

 You'll never go broke betting on some people's ability to be dillsacks. Some people actually thrive on it. It's like breathing air to some people.

And by "some people," I mean "Curt Schilling."

Who ought to be in the Hall of Fame, probably, but isn't because baseball writers are vindictive cusses who don't like dillsacks. Schilling, apparently, is the king of dillsacks. Not only did the writers never much care for him, reportedly, neither did any of his teammates. This is because he's (again, reportedly) a me-first guy of the first order, which is why he's also famously not one of those squishy left-wingers.

But selling out a former teammate?

That's low even for him.

Seems Dillsack Curt went on his podcast the other day and blabbed about Tim Wakefield, whose knuckleball was a nice complement to Schilling's heat on the Red Sox pitching staff. Wakefield has brain cancer. His wife, Stacy, also has cancer. The Red Sox had honored their wishes to keep the news quiet.

Not Dillsack Curt. He told the world.

And now you're saying "Well, maybe he didn't know they wanted to keep it quiet." My response to that is if he knew Wakefield had brain cancer, he also knew the Red Sox were telling people to dummy up about it. It's almost impossible to believe otherwise.

In any event, now it's out there. The Red Sox have requested privacy for the family. I imagine they've also privately requested Curt Schilling's head on a pike atop the Green Monster in Fenway. Word is they're livid, as well they should be.

Dillsackery. It's just what some people do.