RACING
Jimmy The Hat The life and times of the Pick 6 architect
W
HEN push comes to shove, there isn’t much leeway for James Everett Allard, known to racing’s rank and file as “Jimmy the Hat.” Politically incorrect and assuredly opinionated, he would have been an ideal fit in “Guys and Dolls,” the Tony Awardwinning musical tale of a dichotomous gambler, based on the book by American newspaperman and author Damon Runyon. Runyon is best known for his short stories celebrating the world of Broadway that grew out of the Prohibition era. To New Yorkers of his generation, a “Damon Runyon character” evoked a distinctive social type from the Brooklyn or mid-town demi-monde—the adjective “Runyonesque” referring to this type of character. Allard would have suitably comported with the leading performers of “Guys and Dolls,” namely Sky Masterson, Harry the Horse, Nathan Detroit and Nicely-Nicely. But his frequently effusive countenance offers more than that—much more. Paraphrasing the show business term, “born in a trunk,” Allard was virtually born at the track. Though his place of birth is Rochester, N.Y., and he now resides in Santa Monica, California, Allard’s first lucid memories of life came at Batavia Downs, a harness track 34 miles from Rochester, as the crow flies. Betting on horses is a way of life for Allard, now a Pick 6 architect who was weaned on racing when he was three years old. In the 22
TRAINERMAGAZINE.COM ISSUE 35
Meet Jimmy Allard: “Jack of all trades, master of one.” A self-proclaimed “professional horse player,” Allard is at once dogmatic, enigmatic, pragmatic, and, when it comes to playing the Pick 6, pretty much automatic. Even though he turns 61 on April 26, 2015, pose any question, and Allard’s curious and expansive mind zeroes in on total and accurate recall. Like Jeopardy’s Alex Trebek behind the podium, he’s got all the right answers before the buzzer sounds. WORDS: ED GOLDEN PHOTOS: BENOIT PHOTOGRAPHY
book of Allard’s life, however, that chapter is a mere grain of sand in a desert of infinite horizons. Ask Allard a question, then take a deep breath, draw on Job’s patience and prepare to listen. Don’t expect any pauses, pregnant or otherwise. There’s no telling when his soliloquy will end or how many paths it will traverse. He rambles coherently with an ideological zeal and a child’s innocence. Periods are not prominent among his properties of punctuation, as the following episodes reveal in graphic yet curtailed detail. “My dad, Everett James Allard, was a World War II sergeant who spent 195 consecutive days on the front lines, received the Bronze Star for bravery, and during that period, his uncle—my great uncle, Fred Allard—owned what was arguably the greatest bar in Rochester,” Allard said. “When my dad came home, he had what I now perceive to be post-traumatic stress syndrome, and he’d sit out in my great aunt Marie’s backyard for weeks at a time. “Finally, my uncle Fred took him into his restaurant on State Street, and he became
great uncle Fred’s protege. Years later, he opened his own bar on the other end of State Street, so there was Fred Allard’s bar on one end of State Street and just plain old Allard’s at 312 State Street. “In between was Eastman Kodak, which at the time was the fifth most powerful corporation in America. My dad meets my mom—her full name was Phyllis Louise Harrington—she was born Oct. 3, 1919. She was about 34 when I was born and my dad, who passed away at 42 on May 26, 1959, was about 37. “My father grew up around Fred Allard’s restaurant and bar, which was pretty much a bookie joint in those days. I was born in a two-bedroom apartment, a block and half from the restaurant. “I remember sitting on my father’s shoulders at Batavia Downs when I was three, watching people around me jumping up and down screaming. “Maybe 40 years later, I reconnected with my father’s aunt Marie, who was my great aunt and more like a sister to him, and she recounted that story for me. It was literally my first memory in life. I don’t remember