My fingers curl differently–meaning they don’t really curl at all. I can’t grip a baseball anymore.

I remember back in the day when it seemed my whole body could swallow a baseball–seams and all. Staring from my palm, and somehow disappearing down my wrist and through my forearm, as if it were an esophagus.
Now baseballs eat me, little by little, until I am only safe from this consumption, by watching the game on television.