That clock radio on the floor beside my sleeping bag was a liar, claiming it was 6:30 a.m. and that I’d only been asleep for four hours.

Les Hayes, my buddy, was already up, a shadowy figure in his Manhattan Beach living room.

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Already showered and in one of his 118 pairs of summer shorts, he was ready … and focused.

“Breakfast,” he said in his Veit Nam-Marine-turned-wheelchair-basketball-coach tone.

“Let’s go. Get a table before they are all gone.”

We were off to The Castle, a joint on North Sepulveda Boulevard, for the most important meal of the day: steak and eggs.

But really, it was just the appetizer before the main event — getting our NFL bets in before the games started.

Back at his place, Les had set up a command centre: eight portable TVs, each one tuned

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