WORSHIPPING PEDIGREE

There's worse Kool-Aid a person can drink than pedigree worship, but not by much, there is a religion worshipped at the track and its pedigree.

Some pedigree analysts can't see a modestly bred horse if it's standing right in front of them wearing a sign that says, "I'm a runner." They just can't. Their ranks range from sycophants to full-fledged cheerleaders, pom-poms and all, rooting for the bluebloods before they've ever set foot on a racetrack.

Back in 2007, we bought a couple of babies. One was by Sea of Secrets and the other by High Brite. I was intrigued by both pedigrees. Not because they were fashionable, but because they were interesting.

I'd watched Sea of Secrets train. He was a fast son of Storm Cat who had shown serious speed before a breathing issue cut his career short. High Brite was a millionaire by Best Turn, trained by D. Wayne Lukas, a horse who'd earned his keep the hard way.

The Sea of Secrets colt was a good-looking individual. Strong, athletic, quick. The High Brite filly was tall and leggy with plenty of scope.

So, being the curious fool that I was, I reached out to one of these pedigree analysts. I wasn't asking if they'd win the Kentucky Derby. I wanted to know what the pedigree suggested. Distance? Surface? Running style? Tendencies?

The answer came back:

"Unpalatable pedigree."

That was it.

No discussion.

No explanation.

No analysis.

Just 'Unpalatable'.

Well, alrighty then.

That's when I learned that a lot of pedigree analysts aren't really analyzing horses. They're chasing royalty. They're not swimming in the ocean of possibilities every pedigree contains. They've reduced the whole thing to a simple menu: palatable or unpalatable.

If the horse is bred like a king, then his sons are princes, his daughters are princesses, and the pedigree analysts become medieval courtiers lining up to bow before the throne.

That was unpalatable to me.

These horses get put under a microscope. The ledger must be filled with graded stakes winners. There better be black type stacked up like cordwood. The family tree has to be dripping with blue hen broodmares and fashionable sires before they'll grant their blessing.

Then throw auction prices into the mix and Lord Almighty, now you've got a full-blown love affair.

A $750,000 yearling by a top-three stallion out of a Grade 1-winning mare?

Cue the trumpets.

Strike up the band.

Bring in the mariachi.

Release the feather-fan girls.

Roll out the red carpet.

Folks start talking about that horse like he's the Crown Prince of Thoroughbreddom and all that's left is scheduling the coronation.

Meanwhile, you bring out a horse by a sire who's had some success but lacks the approval stamp of the pedigree aristocracy, and they look at him like he's homeless, wearing hand-me-down horseshoes and sleeping behind the backside barn.

But here's the funny thing.

Horses don't read sales catalogs.

They don't know what they cost.

They don't know whether Grandma was a blue hen broodmare or a Tuesday-night claimer.

They just run.

And sometimes they run pretty damn fast.

That Sea of Secrets colt, Sea of Pleasure? He went to Santa Anita and broke the track record first time out sprinting. Later that fall he came right back and won an allowance in 1:08 and change. He became a stakes winner.

That High Brite filly, Ten Churros—named after what can only be described as a questionable, alcohol-assisted evening at a Del Mar strip joint—turned into a California-bred stakes-winning filly.

Imagine that.

Two horses from those dreadful, horrible, unpalatable pedigrees.

Seems they never got the memo.

Which just goes to show that pedigree can tell you a lot, but it can't tell you everything. The race still has to be run. The horse still has to leave the gate. And every once in a while, the bluebloods get outrun by the kid from the wrong side of the catalog.

Now that's a flavor I find mighty palatable.