Stephen Montoya
By noon on Friday, May 16, the Fort Worth Stockyards will echo with more than just the usual clip-clop of hooves and hum of tourists. It’ll rumble with something weightier —hoofbeats of the Budweiser Clydesdales, those towering symbols of Americana, pulling a beer wagon through the cobbled streets like it’s 1933. The hitch will roll into Cowtown Coliseum at 12:30 p.m., delivering more than just beer. An announcement is on tap: a new partnership between Anheuser-Busch, Cowtown Coliseum, and the Fort Worth Stockyards. The aim? To celebrate Western heritage and live entertainment in a way only Fort Worth —and a horse-drawn beer delivery — can.
The event is part of a broader cross-country tour, but here in Fort Worth, it hits differently. After all, this is a city that understands legacy. Last July, the Clydesdales stood beneath the Stockyards sign as if it had been built just for them. They’re back now, not just for nostalgia, but for something enduring. If there’s one thing more American than baseball and barbecue, it’s the Budweiser Clydesdales.
Alec Smith, a hitch driver with the team that we interviewed last year, says he has been on the job for seven years. He’s been around horses his whole life — but these? These are something else. “I grew up doing this type of work,” Smith says, resting in the shade between photo ops. “But once you come out here to the world-renowned Budweiser Clydesdales, it’s a sight unseen.”
The tradition dates back to 1933, when August A. Busch Jr. and Adolphus Busch III presented their father with a Clydesdale hitch to celebrate the repeal of Prohibition. The team was sent to New York to deliver beer to former Governor Al Smith and later to the White House, where President Roosevelt received his own post-Prohibition six-pack. Since then, the Clydesdales have become more than just a marketing gimmick. They’re living monuments to American grit and showmanship — traveling the country in custom trailers, each 50 feet long, each built to pamper these “gentle giants” with air-cushioned suspension and thick rubber flooring. Their handlers — who travel with the team for up to 10 months a year—monitor every detail: grooming, feeding, hydration. One horse can go through up to 60 pounds of hay and 30 gallons of water in a single day.
But it’s the hitch drivers who really understand what it takes to move 16 tons of equine pageantry through a packed crowd. “It’s all in the fingertips,” Smith says. “Each horse has a brain — it’s not like a vehicle where you’re in full control. You have to somehow, some way, with your fingertips and a piece of leather, make that horse understand what you're trying to anticipate.”
The tour continues the next day at Globe Life Field in Arlington, where the Clydesdales will greet fans ahead of the Texas Rangers game. Budweiser will also join Folds of Honor for a check presentation. The partnership, which began in 2009, has raised more than $33 million for scholarships benefiting military and first responder families. This year, a portion of all 12-pack sales and proceeds from patriotic packaging will be donated to the organization.
It’s a blend of show, substance, and sentiment. Which, when you think about it, is exactly what the Clydesdales represent. The horses themselves are iconic — each one named simply (Duke, Mark, Bud), so the commands ring out clearly. Their harnesses and collars each weigh about 130 pounds. Their shoes? More than 20 inches wide and five pounds apiece. And seated beside the driver, perched like royalty, is the trademark Dalmatian—a nod to the breed’s history as a coach dog. The wagons they pull, restored to early 20th-century glory, come equipped with dual braking systems: a hydraulic pedal for slowing on turns and a handbrake that locks the wheels at a stop. No detail is left to chance, no corner of tradition untouched.
So when the Clydesdales make their way through the Fort Worth Stockyards this Friday, it won’t just be a marketing moment — it’ll be a reminder. That some legacies roll forward, heavy and sure-footed, through the dust and noise of modern life. And in places like Fort Worth, we still make room to watch them pass.
