Yes, Gil Gamesh was alleged by Mike the Mouth Masterson to have thrown a ball—after 77 consecutive strikes.
"Well," sighed the Old Philosopher, down in the Greenback dugout, "here comes the end of the world." He pulled out his pocket watch, seemingly taking some comfort in its precision. "Yep, at 2:59 p.m. on Wednesday, June 16,1933. Right on time."
Out on the diamond, Gil Gamesh was 15 feet forward from the rubber, still in the ape-like crouch with which he completed his big sidearm motion. In their seats the fans surged upwards as though in anticipation of Gil's bounding into the air and landing in one enormous leap on Mike the Mouth's blue back. Instead, he straightened up like a man—a million years of primate evolution passing instantaneously before their eyes—and there was that smile, that famous crooked smile. "Okay," he called down to his catcher, Pineapple Tawhaki, "throw it here."
"But—holy aloha!" cried Pineapple, who hailed from Honolulu, "he call ball, Gilly!"
Gamesh spat high and far and watched the tobacco juice raise the white dust on the first-base foul line. He could hit anything with anything, that boy. "Was a ball."
"Was?" Pineapple cried.
"Yep." And he spat again, this time raising chalk along third. "Done it on purpose, Pineapple. Done it deliberate."
"Holy aloha!" the mystified catcher groaned—and fired the ball back to Gil. "How-why-ee?"
"So's to make sure," said Gil. his voice rising to a piercing pitch, "so's to make sure the old geezer standin' behind you hadn't fell asleep at the switch! JUST TO KEEP THE OLD SON OF A BITCH HONEST!"