ALAN’S EULOGY
Good morning, I am Arthur’s eldest son – Alan, and this is Arthur’s granddaughter – Tara.
I want to start my tribute to Dad with a couple of stories about his courage and composure under pressure. These two stories are among my most profound memories of him, and they were formed when I was a very young child in East Africa. I want to share them because they provide a contrast to Dad’s more well-known persona.
In the first story, we were a convoy of five cars. We had just left an isolated picnic spot at a remote beach, but the way out was blocked by logs deliberately laid across that track. When we stopped at this roadblock, a large group of men armed with machetes came out from the scrub; they surrounded the cars at the rear of the convoy and were trying to force open the doors and windows.
Dad knew that the door locks of the first car were broken so it could not be locked from the inside. The armed gang were becoming increasingly aggressive as they moved towards the front of the convoy and were moments away from opening the lead car’s doors or smashing a window open.
As the gang were about to surround the lead car, Dad drove to the front of the convoy to distract them away. From that position, he then rammed one of the smaller logs to create a gap in the barrier for the cars to get through; allowing the convoy to escape.
In the second story, we were in one of Dad’s friend’s boat when the engine cut out – a fishing net had wrapped around the propeller and dad and his friend could not untangle it from the boat.
In the meantime the boat had drifted close to shore and had turned side-on to the swell. It was copping a battering as it heaved and rolled. But as Dad was a strong swimmer, he decided to enter the water and eventually freed the propeller.
As for his more visible persona…. Dad was well known for his passion for sports and his sense of humour which were a huge part of his character. If you knew him in his youth in East Africa, you would remember that representational hockey, soccer and table tennis was in his blood.
Everything revolved around his sports; so much so that Dad is known to have taken off his own plaster cast off a fractured leg so that he didn’t miss playing in a major tournament.
Dad continued playing table tennis in Australia into his 80’s. As a family we knew that nothing could compete with his club’s table tennis roster.
As you can imagine, a lifetime playing sports and Dad’s sense of humour provided a huge pool of hilarious anecdotes.
Two that always put a smile on my face are - the one about when Dad went to Zanzibar to play table tennis and got locked up by the Zanzibar modesty police for wearing his sports shorts in public; and the other one is Dad’s literal “run in” with a policeman in Bandra. This collision on his bicycle split the policeman’s pants from one side to the other. But as Dad was wearing his school uniform, his escape from the scene was a short one.
I would like to conclude with this! If I could say anything to Dad three weeks ago, it would be this:
“Thank you for being an incredibly kind, generous and tolerant father. Thank you for providing a stable and happy home and for being a great travel companion. Most of all, thank you for being a loving father, husband, and grandpa.
*****
CONRAD LOPEZ'S EULOGY
Good morning, everyone.
Thank you for being here today to celebrate Dad’s life and to say goodbye as he begins his next journey. Dad passed away on Monday, January 13, just three weeks shy of his 91st birthday.
His last two months were spent at Westmead, where he fought bravely despite his ageing body. Today, I want to share some stories, both my own and those passed down, about the man we all knew and loved.
Dad had a personality that filled any room. He was big, loud, and confident, always ready with a joke. He was incredibly gifted, both musically and mathematically, but above all, he was honest, generous, and deeply humble.
His faith was his guiding force. He was baptised Benedict Anthony Arthur, though I only discovered this when we were migrating to Australia. I remember seeing “BAA LOPEZ” written on our luggage and thinking it was a new business name. Dad explained that at school, there were too many Bens and Anthonys, so he became Arthur. Everyone called him that—except me, because I loved to stir him.
Dad was mad about sports—crazy about them! He played soccer, hockey, tennis, badminton, volleyball, and his favourite, table tennis. He was also a strong swimmer. His passion for competition ran deep; once, he even tore the plaster off his fractured leg just to compete in a grand final.
I have vivid memories of Dad and Bruce standing metres from the table, smashing the ball back and forth, then suddenly shifting into a spin contest. The harder the game got, the more they laughed.
He and I once played a grudge match—if I won, I could use his car without having to refuel it. He let me start with an 18-point lead—and still beat me.
Beyond sports, Dad had many passions. He loved photography, oil painting, cooking, and two-wheel driving. He and his brothers would take their cars into East Africa’s national parks, sometimes getting stuck overnight when the gates closed.
He was also lucky enough to meet two of his idols—Johnny Weissmuller during the filming of Tarzan, and John Wayne while Hatari was being made, thanks to Uncle Robert’s work with heavy machinery.
Music was another deep love of Dad’s. He owned a reel-to-reel tape recorder and would meticulously clean the heads before threading the tape. He was fascinated by the complexity of it, despite already having a great sound system.
He also played double bass—perfectly by ear, never reading a note of sheet music. He was an original beatboxer, always tapping rhythms on the table and mimicking beats with his mouth.
When I was younger, I bought a drum kit and set it up in the garage with suppression pads. One day, Dad came in, listened for a bit, then told me I had no feeling. He said I needed to “dance on the seat” and verbalise the beat.
Then he gave me a lesson—boom, tick, tick, boom! Dugga dugga boom! I stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or argue. He took the sticks, played a rhythm, and suddenly launched into a bit of Deep Purple. I was blown away. He finished with his classic joke:
“How do you tell if your stage is level? The drool flows evenly from both corners of the drummer’s mouth.”
But life wasn’t always easy for Dad. In the ’80s, he faced redundancy and later survived bowel cancer—both major blows. He bounced back quickly, but something changed in him. He became quieter, more reserved.
Over the years, the toll of his active life began to show. After countless surgeries on joints, tendons, and bones, he finally had to admit that he wasn’t the Pete Sampras of table tennis anymore. Letting go of the game was difficult, but he adjusted.
Through it all, he remained the same honest, generous, thoughtful, and loving man. A devoted husband, a wonderful father. A man who lived life fully, who gave without expecting anything in return, and whose presence we will miss dearly.
Rest in peace, Dad.
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