I was driving (slowly) down a street in Clovis last week and noticed a sign at one of the businesses. It said "Beat Highland." Short, succinct, easily understood by almost everyone in town. Clovis was going to be playing Albuquerque's Highland High in football. In Clovis. Friday.

A newspaper reporter in Albuquerque predicted Clovis would win, but they would be the ultimate losers of the game because they had to live in Clovis -- "So far from heaven, so close to Texas" the writer joked.

In the occasional Clovis front yard, there are monuments (just glorified real estate signs, I guess) to the current members of the high school football team. There aren't a lot of things happening in Clovis, and football in the fall is king. There's a dance every couple of weeks at the converted downtown theater. And, I think, there's just one band playing those dances. Not much else to occupy the time and energies of the town.

When I drove down Main Street, built so long ago with bright red bricks, the CD player in my car skipped. When my speedometer clicked over 40 in town, it seemed like I was speeding out of control.

I didn't actually get done what I wanted to get done in Clovis, but I did get some burritos at Taco Box (I went there almost every day when I was in high school). And I picked up freshly picked and roasted peanuts from just outside of Portales. Other than that, it wasn't a bad drive. Three hours between Albuquerque and Clovis with the updated speed limits. When I made the trip frequently ten years or more ago, it was three and a half at best. At the same time, it's an entirely different world.

My real world is centered about a half a mile from Highland High. I live in the Highland school district, and if I had high school aged kids, they'd be really happy right now. Highland High beat Clovis 33-13 in Clovis on Friday. It was the first time Highland had beaten Clovis on their home turf.

My adopted hometown beats my old hometown handily--even in football.

I have few ties to Clovis these days. Some friends's parents still live there, but mine do not. I don't have any long lost friends or girlfriends lurking in that small town. And I don't really plan on establishing any new ones.

Driving east on Wednesday was actually kind of nice, though. I'd picked the coolest day of the week to be out on the road. It was raining throughout the state, and most of the day I was under clouds and occasional rain drops. I cranked up the music and screamed along to the rock. The destination was in my mind, but not really ruling it to any extent. When I got there, when everything slowed down to a crawl once again, I had to adjust my head a bit. Kind of like going into a decompression chamber.

I don't know if it was an exorcism or just a reminder to leave it behind--whatever might be left of that place in my head.

And so I was back on friendly ground before the sun went down. The next day, after my band raged a truly blistering set, we heard the Highland marching band rehearsing. Maybe they were practicing to play in Clovis the next night. Or maybe they'd be spared that bus drive into nearly Texas.

Next week, I'll drive south instead. It seems as though the beast from the East is dead.

Matt Worley isn't looking for a new hometown.