"I never pushed Les to play," said Lenny, who attended many of his games. "Did he feel pressure from his peers? Sure. They'd say, `Hey man, you gonna wear No. 24?' But he didn't.
Lenny saved his son's old football shoes, which he keeps in a closet beside a battered cleat worn by former Colts star Gene "Big Daddy" Lipscomb, the huge defensive lineman who died of a heroin overdose nearly 40 years ago.
Les himself used illegal drugs after high school during a difficult stretch. He overcame his addiction with help from his family and went on to use his experience to caution others.
Lenny, now a juvenile justice program specialist with the State Department of Education, takes pride in describing how Les once accompanied him to address troubled teens - and tried to turn young lives around.
"He spoke freely about what drugs he'd taken, what they tasted like and their chemical breakdowns," Lenny recounted. "He told them what it felt like to get high, using street vernacular, and how `you'll never quite get to that little light at the end of the tunnel - or back to where you were when you started [using].'
"He planted the seed, left nothing out. I was amazed at the depth of his knowledge."
Les was working as a lathe operator in 1992 when he was diagnosed with scleroderma, a non-contagious disease that afflicts more than 300,000 Americans. In its milder forms, the illness may cause a thickening of the skin, gnarled hands and rheumatic-like pain in joints and bones.
The disease targets women 3-to-1 over men. African-Americans are particularly susceptible to the rarer, life-threatening form, in which the body's defense system declares war on its vital organs, eroding the kidney, lungs and heart.
While there is no known cure, "the technology for substantial new treatments is around the corner," said Dr. Fred Wigley, co-director of the joint-ventured Johns Hopkins and University of Maryland Scleroderma Center. He said those suffering from the most severe form can expect to live an average of two to five years.
Les Moore lasted nine.
"He was such a strong-willed individual, he never totally let us in on how bad he was feeling," said Dr. Ray Flores, a specialist in rheumatologic diseases who treated him at the University of Maryland Medical Center. "We never spoke of spiritual faith, but Les always believed things would work out."
In 1998, Les was able to accompany his dad to the Super Bowl in Miami for a 40th anniversary gala of the 1958 championship game. Les hobnobbed with legendary members of the Colts and New York Giants.
He soaked up stories, had a blast. "He was cool on the outside, but a kid on the inside," Lenny said.
But the disease progressed steadily until, last fall, Les needed an oxygen backpack to attend the Ravens' home games. That hit Lenny hard. It was difficult for him to accept that his son was weaker than he.
"It bothered Lenny big-time," said Edith, his wife of 24 years. "Lenny didn't say so, but Les knew that it worried him, too."
To spare his dad, Les used oxygen discreetly.
The two spent countless hours in the club basement of Lenny's home in Randallstown, watching football and hockey games on TV, or listening to jazz.
That room seems terribly empty now, with Les gone.