Training camp, the Dallas Cowboys’ way

I’ve seen Paris this summer, then Lancaster. That leaves only Oxnard to savor before fall is fully upon us. Mostly, I go for the great shopping.

But I also like the football, and if you’re looking for a quick dose of the NFL, Dallas Cowboys camp in Oxnard is the closest thing you can find to Los Angeles.

To be sure, we’re an up-and-coming city, and one day L.A. will acquire an NFL franchise to validate its sense of self-worth. An NFL team is the ultimate swirl-point of civic pride. Eventually, we’ll sell what’s left of our souls for a game only millionaires can afford. For now, we throw our support to the Cowboys, who are Augusting in Oxnard. Mostly, they go for the spectacular cuisine.

Who wouldn’t? Getting to Oxnard is easier than the Coliseum. Up the 101 toward Ventura, exiting Vineyard, then left. Cowboys training camp is 1.5 miles down Vineyard, just past Ventura Road. A monkey without a road map could find it. Or even me.

I haven’t been to an NFL training camp in ages. They apparently are no longer merely a couple of football fields and maybe a set of bleachers. At the Cowboys’ camp, there’s the “fun zone” of bouncy houses ($2 for the day) and a series of souvenir and food booths. They have this thing called Autograph Alley, where kids 12 and under can line up for the indecipherable scribbles of athletes (get your free wristband at the booth next to the lost and found).

And line up they do. My son and I waited an hour, hoping his Sharpie wouldn’t dry out in the August heat. Then the Cowboys filtered by, about half of them stopping to sign for the kids.

To me, an autograph is the most senseless thing and I sympathize with athletes who tire of the process. No matter how many footballs you sign, when you walk away there are always another 20 kids waving pens — and their moms all cawing at you like crows.

Still, players should stop and sign. More than ever, pro football players are action heroes come to life — big as trees, almost mythical. I counted 22 players on the training camp roster over 300 pounds. Like the banks, the Cowboys may be too big to fail.

Kudos to former Trojan David Buehler, who actually looked as though he wanted to sign autographs for the kids, and to DajLeon Farr for the same reason. By the way, if you think DajLeon is a pretty cool name, keep in mind that the Cowboys also have a player named Scott Sicko, who seems a lock for the All-Name Hall of Fame.

The others I didn’t recognize quite so much. Oh, there’s Tony Romo, Marion Barber, DeMarcus Ware. Still, as Cowboys teams go, this one seems low on glamour. Perhaps their famed cheerleaders will have an especially memorable year. I will go out on a limb here and predict the squad will include several busty blonds.

These are the Cowboys, after all, the template for the glitzy modern franchise. Don Meredith. Bob Hayes. Tony Dorsett. This isn’t a football team, it’s a Rolex watch. White gold. The Cowboys have always been the kind of guys who speed up for yellow lights.

Now, a certain amount of vacuous entertainment is important to a balanced life, which I guess explains the Cowboys. To me, though, many of those teams were as phony as the Astroturf they seem to have invented, but that’s probably just the nagging shrapnel wounds of too many Dan Jenkins articles.

But there is a Dallas mystique, no question. And for the price of parking ($10), a couple hours of it can be yours (practices are free).

Move quickly, though. The last workouts are Thursday (at 9 a.m. and 3:15 p.m.) and Friday (10:15 a.m.).

Meanwhile, for more preseason kicks, there’s always HBO’s “Hard Knocks,” a training camp documentary that is the best thing on TV.

This season’s star is that Round Mound of Profound, Rex Ryan, who I’m liking more and more every week, the rare NFL commandant not afraid to enjoy himself.

Favorite scene so far: The Jets head coach carrying popcorn and a soft drink into a showing of the movie “Dinner for Schmucks.”

Second favorite scene: Joe Namath’s visit.

What’s with Joe Namath’s voice?

The lilting cadence of a South Beach hairdresser, with a little bit of Alabama drawl. In the office the other day, my buddy Geoff said he also detects a trace of Liverpool in Namath’s voice, which might explain the Ringo Starr haircut. I hear a little Dylan too.

In any case, with that oddball voice — and his pants hiked to his nipples — Namath is fast becoming football’s Ozzy Osbourne.

You know, I think I smell a reality show. Or maybe that’s just lunch.

chris.erskine@latimes.com