When Eva told me she was a “balomano” coach I had no idea what she was talking about. Even when I realized that “balo” is “ball” and “mano” is “hand” (in English, “handball”), I still was at a loss for what exactly it was.

So Saturday morning she picked me up in her car and we drove 15 minutes outside of town to a residential neighborhood with a recreational area comprised of several cement courts.

Walking up on the scene before us felt surprisingly familiar and comfortable. Two teams of girls were skipping, butt-kicking, and high-kneeing across the nearest court. Warm-ups. Visions of the many and varied recreational leagues of my youth came flooding back to me.

Coach Eva dropped her bags and shouted directions. Her team, dressed in ice blue jerseys, came bounding toward the bench where I had stationed myself among the scattered water bottles and equipment. Laughing and shrieking, ponytails swinging, they plopped themselves down at Eva’s feet.

The pep talk that followed was unintelligible to me. The team, unabashed adolescents from ages 11-14, took chattiness to a new level. Eva’s speech was peppered with questions and comments from the team, more of a peanut gallery, really, and I couldn’t follow the thread of banter. Both entertained and exasperated, Eva finally called the girls into a huddle.

“Uno… Equipo! Dos… San Augustín!”

After a quick call and response cheer, the girls dashed off to their stations on the field of play. The game is a fast-paced combination of basketball and soccer; it begins with a toss up. In a surprising contrast to their preteen silliness, the girls skillfully whipped the Nerf-sized ball from one to the other. They looked natural and at ease. It occurred to me that even though I’d never seen the sport before, some of them had already been playing for a few years.

The spirit of the players morphed from moment to moment. Game faces broke into laughter at the drop of a hat. Whining sharpened to focus with the blow of the whistle. Good sportsmanship mingled with snide remarks. Prancing, carefree movements contrasted with clean passes and complicated plays. The limbo that is adolescence seemed encapsulated on the court before me.

The drama of injury halted play upwards of five or six times over the course of the game. Player down, teammates surround with concern, player hobbles off the court – the routine was boiled down to an art. Time after time the fuss and commotion that had commanded rapt attention only moments ago was eclipsed by resilient giddiness as play resumed.

And so it became clear that, at least on the balomano court, adolescence in Spain looks just like it does in the U.S. Unruly, spirited, moody, goofy. And actually, toddlers are bratty here and young mothers look tired and elderly folks lose their hair and move slowly. For all the different languages, customs, and middle school rec. leagues out there, we’re all hitting the same phases and stages. We’re all marching down the same path.

And I find comfort in that, or at least familiarity. Amidst all the newness that comes along with living in a foreign place, it’s oddly reassuring: people are people everywhere.