Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Arizona Hispanics Poised To Swing State Blue

39 minutes ago
Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Edit note: This report contains accounts of rape, violence and other disturbing events.

Sex trafficking wasn't a major concern in the early 1980s, when Beth Jacobs was a teenager. If you were a prostitute, the thinking went, it was your choice.

Jacobs thought that too, right up until she came to on the lot of a dark truck stop one night. She says she had asked a friendly-seeming man for a ride home that afternoon.

Jacobs says he gave her something in an old McDonald's cup — a drug — and as she was waking up the man announced that he was a pimp. Her pimp.

The Boston Citgo sign, all 3,600 square LED feet of which has served as the backdrop to Red Sox games since 1965, is now officially a "pending landmark."

Spanish Surrealist Salvador Dalí spent much of the 1940s in the U.S., avoiding World War II and its aftermath. He was a well-known fixture on the art scene in Monterey, Calif. — and that's where the largest collection of Dalí's work on the West Coast is now open to the public.

Copyright 2016 Fresh Air. To see more, visit Fresh Air.


Finding Beauty In A Baseball, After The Last Pitch

Apr 1, 2013
Originally published on April 3, 2013 10:17 am

As a new season of Major League Baseball begins, one photographer focuses on baseballs past — that is, baseballs that have lain dormant well after their last pitch.

For years, photographer Don Hamerman walked his dog near an old baseball diamond in Stamford, Conn. And in all different seasons, in all kinds of weather, Hamerman picked up old baseballs.

He brought them back to his studio, where they sat around for years until he finally decided to start photographing them in 2005.

Hamerman, who hasn't been to a ballgame in 10 years, admits that he cares more about aesthetics than history. He says he doesn't even know what baseballs are made of — he just loves the way they look.

"I collected them more for their objectness than the sport," he says over the phone. "Some people have said it reminds them of connecting to their childhood. I just think what appeals to me is what appeals to other people too. They are just cool."

The patterns of decay seem almost artful. One ball bears an uncanny resemblance to a map of North and South America. Another looks ready to be knitted into a scarf. Others sprout moss like tiny terrariums.

And Hamerman doesn't manipulate anything about them — although, he says, he did try to preserve some live moss with a spritz of water, but after a few days it withered away.

He says he has exhausted the field near his house and now collects balls when he travels. But he has his eye on one that's half-buried and growing moss in a local park. "I know right where to find it if I'm ever moved," he says.

(Oh, and as for what balls are made of these days? Official ones by Rawlings are assembled in Costa Rica from cork, rubber, wool yarn, cotton yarn, rubber cement, cowhide and red cotton thread.)

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