Three down, one to go.

That’s right. The Devils—the Tampa Bay only-been-in-existence-since-1998-and-have-the-second-smallest-payroll-in-baseball Devils—are only one win away from knocking the Chowdas into oblivion. (The Marlins, incidentally, are the team with the smallest payroll—by a lot. Who knew Floridians were so frugal?)

So the Devils need one win, and they have three games in which to get it. Oh, and, by the way, two of those games are going to be played at home—at the Trop. For the record, if you’re going to sell the naming rights to your ballpark, sell it to a company with a name like Tropicana. The Trop? It just sounds cool. (Citizens Bank Park—not cool.)

In any event, given the way things have been going for the Rays, chances are that—to borrow a phrase from the Cubbies—it’s gonna happen.

We keep hearing a lot about the whole Cinderella aspect of this story. And, boy, isn’t an allusion to Cinderella an original way to make reference to the underdog. Not that I don’t love the thought of Cliff Floyd and Evan Longoria turning into field mice at the strike of midnight as B.J. goes scurrying off the field in a state of panic, losing the glass cleat that will eventually be returned to him by Joe Maddon who turns out to be his soul mate. Unless, of course, Maddon is the fairy godmother in this scenario. I don’t know. I haven’t quite worked it out yet. All I know is that if this is, indeed, the Cinderella story that everyone keeps shoving down our throats, then that casting director in the sky couldn’t have picked a better team to play the role of the evil stepsisters than the Chowdas.

It’s a well-established fact (in my mind) that the Chowdas are the most deplorable team in baseball. For those of you who are dubious, who suspect that my disdain for the Sox is merely the result of my allegiance to the Bombers, let’s review the roster:

Dustin Pedroia, who basically went and told Japan to shut up on his team’s recent visit. He is also famously rude when people ask for his autograph. Even when those people happen to be small children. Or puppies. Mike Lowell of beat people up in dark alleys fame. (This is merely conjecture, but my gut rarely leads me astray.) And, no, Lowell may not be on the field in body, but he’s there in spirit. Crapelbon, who doesn’t know how to shut his big old Yapelbon. D.L., I mean, J.D. Drew. Youkilis of the unfortunate facial hair. Papi, who refers to himself as Papi. Third person? Embarrassing. Third person nickname? Abomination. Then, of course, the Lord of the Suck—Covelli. Yes, you still suck Coco Crisp. For the same reasons as always.

So, with the Devs poised to take the series, I hope you all bear in mind that the truly compelling aspect of this story isn’t the success of our heroes; it is the demise of our villains. If I cared more about the former, I might want to see this all play out at the Trop. Because that’s what makes sense when your narrative is centered around the protagonists. However, since it’s all about Chowda humiliation for me, I say do it Fenway. Fill up that stadium with Chowda-loving Chowda heads, and then make them cry. In their house. Like the old-timey days when that kind of stuff happened all the time.

Incidentally, while we’re on the subject of the Chowda collapse and our good friend Coco, I hate to be the one to point out the elephant in the room, but it was Covelli who hit into an inning-ending double play last night. Two on, one out. Now why would you want to go and do something like that during one of the most important games of the postseason? Oh, right, because you suck Coco Crisp.