"I could also win."
"If you have any idea about becoming the first black manager, you can forget it after suing. You can also forget jobs as a coach or scout."
"I never had a chance anyway."
"Think of the money you'd lose by staying out of the game during the next two or three seasons."
"You haven't begun to scare me yet. Let's sue."
While in New York, I spent four hours over drinks and dinner with John Quinn. A lady at an adjoining table leaned over and said, "I know you from somewhere. Don't tell me. Lou Brock!"
In situations like that, you get up and introduce yourself before they have a chance to call you Jackie Robinson, Satchel Paige and every other black player they can name. We all look alike.
"I'm Curt Flood," I said, "and this is John Quinn, general manager of the Phillies. I'm with them now."
Technically, it was true. In my haste to silence the woman, I had omitted the details. That flat assertion may have signified more to Quinn than it did to me. It may have accounted for his perplexity when I filed suit. He had thought that I looked upon myself as a Phillie.
That evening Quinn offered me a combination of salary and reimbursement for spring-training expenses that would have raised my 1970 earnings above $100,000. When somebody talks that kind of money one does not respond with a flat no. I told Quinn that I would let him know.