JUST as the new footie film Goal! shoots into British cinemas a rumour rebounds that Chelsea owner Roman Abramovich wants to widen his empire into movies.

Well, if he is searching for a star he need look no further than his own manager Jose Mourinho, now a more ubiquitous presence on television than Terry Wogan. What next, Saturday night with Jose? Sorry, we already have that on Sky Sports and Match Of The Day. It's a good job he opted to curb his utterances this season.

If Abramovich is disposed to put a Cecil B de Milleovich hat on and holler down a megaphone, then he might well need someone with the charisma of Mourinho to try to breathe new life into a bizarre facet of movie-dom - why our home-grown sports industry does not transfer at all well to the silver screen.

Apart from the kitchen sink nature of the Richard Harris rugby league vehicle of This Sporting Life, British sports movies are about as exciting as watching Everton.

Our own national game, football, has been so badly portrayed that the FA could sue several film-makers for breaking the Trades' Descriptions Act.

Remember that laughable Ian McShane number Yesterday's Hero. Sean Bean's When Saturday Comes was even more risible. And as for Escape to Victory. Okay, it was an American film, but just look at those home-grown stars - Michael Caine, the late Bobby Moore, John Wark, Mike Summerbee, Trevor Whymark all mired in a plot that had more holes in it than any defence that boasts Sly Stallone in goal.

To be fair to the United States, the land of the free - monochrome or glorious Technicolor - has consistently produced sports movies which have transcended their particular sport to become classics. Somebody Up There Likes Me (no, I'm not referring to Jose again), starring Paul Newman was as hard-hitting as they come, while Martin certainly put the score into Scorsese with Raging Bull, the best movie ever about the fight game.

Then there's baseball, which has spawned a clutch of celluloid masterpieces in The Natural, Field of Dreams, the consummately accomplished Eight Men Out and the viciously crepuscular Ty.

It says something that Britain's best 'could have been a contender' is likely to be The Great Arsenal Stadium Mystery in which haircuts were brilliantined and shorts almost down to the ankles, though the same apparel boasted creases that could cut concrete. Failing that filmic extravaganza, there's the hokey-jokey variety of Bend it Like Beckham or Gregory's Girl, each triumphant about women in football. No men. Harrumph.

There just does not seem to be a British sporting male equivalent of a Jake la Motta, or a Roy Hobbs, or a Ty Cobb as so spitefully played by Tommy Lee Jones, or John Goodman's screen-busting blustering evocation of Babe Ruth.

We might have brought most sports to the world, but as for exporting to the silver screen the thrills, chills and battles of will that surge and sashay through football, boxing, and cricket, we make about as much impact as the Azores at ski-jumping.

Yet just take this year for exhilarating examples of endeavour, expertise, excitement and energy. England's Ashes triumph, Liverpool's Champions League overhauling of AC Milan, Andrew Murray's too young to hurry surge through the tennis rankings, Sven's dalliances with Faria Alam, let alone quarter-back experimentation. That latter has a certain horror movie potential, surely.

Lush subject matter all, but I bet they'll all go straight to the DVD market unless Roman goes from Blues to cues.

Lights, camera, actionovich.

Updated: 09:54 Tuesday, October 04, 2005