Their ways of doing it could not be more disparate. One is a sabre of cornrowed energy floating in shorts and shoes that look six sizes too big, all wounded looks, waving arms and primal screams. The other smirks at his mistakes as if they were amusing inconveniences, blows on his fingers after burying another shot directly in someone's grill, strolls to the free throw line to complete another three-point play with the simple certainty of an accountant filing another return. Allen Iverson's game plan is to paralyze you with his raw, unbridled desire, knowing it's the biggest stick he carries. Kobe Bryant's desire is his biggest stick too, but it is all the more lethal because he no longer needs to hit you with it early and often. He's the cat working on just another mouse, so sure of the outcome he now enjoys the sport of the buildup.

The common denominator: They've both demonstrated the unique ability to take over not merely a playoff game but an entire series -- in Kobe's case, the entire postseason -- and bend it to the shape of their desire, a talent once considered the exclusive domain of that ol' ex-Bull in D.C. now threatening a comeback. Others -- Vince, Ray Allen, Tim Duncan, Shaq -- have taken the wheel of a particular game when their shot is falling or their competitive pride is prodded or their opponent is hobbled. AI and Kobe are not ruled by circumstance, but by personal choice.

Only these two have teammates and opponents alike dancing to their 48-minute tune. They're the ones who have the ball when a rally has to be stopped or started. They're the ones who pinpoint the other team's weakness and attack it, who find the other team's confidence and crush it. Their decisions -- to pass or not to pass, to run or walk it up, to take a charge or gamble for the steal -- are the stage directions that propel the entire show.

Yeah, yeah, Kobe has Shaq and Phil and a whole slew of savvy Laker vets around him. But Kobe orchestrates their contributions and ably provides the rest -- which in pure numbers is often as much or more than Shaq. But this isn't just about stats. Anyone who has seen The Daddy pass the ball out on a key possession, celebrate a meaningless dunk or leave his hand hanging after a jump hook at the wrong time knows he's not behind the wheel. He's The Diesel, the big, heavy indispensable thing that makes you go but has no sense of direction. The man with the keys is Kobe.

Across the continent, no one doubts that it's Iverson who operates the 76ers show, even though when and where he gets the ball is mostly decided by Aaron McKie and Eric Snow, who take their orders from Larry Brown. The Sixers are built to be a nuclear plant, with Iverson encased -- and showcased -- as the all-important rod of plutonium. Different approach, same result.

"Kobe does it with flair, sensing when the big shot is needed and taking it," says 76ers GM Billy King. "Allen does it with emotion. If you told Allen and Kobe, 'You have to find a way out of this gym,' Allen is over there putting a chair through the window right away. Kobe would look around and say, 'Hey, if I jump up there and swing over there, that might work. Or what if I ... ' He might end up taking a chair to the window, but he'd try to decide if there was a better way."

Bottom line: Bolt the place shut and each still finds a way out.

Kobe discovered he could literally and figuratively call the fourth-quarter shots on his way to that first ring a year ago. This year we've seen him do it all game long. Even Shaq, perhaps hoping to beat the rush, has taken to calling Kobe the planet's greatest player (he's since included the solar system). So has Phil, who pointed out on the eve of Game 4 against the Spurs, "It's the best that I've ever seen a player of mine play an overall court game. I never asked Michael to be a playmaker. I'm asking Kobe to do so much, and he's accomplishing it."

AI is in the discovery period now, learning by way of a bruised tailbone that if superior speed is his lone trump card, then the Sixers' chances can be compromised any of the many times he hits the floor.

Neither of them has lived MJ's charmed existence, but in some ways that makes their accomplishments all the more meaningful. AI, nearly traded last summer, played his way to an MVP award and then outdid Vince in one of the best mano-a-mano duels in recent memory. Philly's six-foot, 165-pound blur poured in 54 points against proud defenders Alvin Williams, Antonio Davis and Charles Oakley, then, three games later, poured in 52 more. VC picked up his diploma at North Carolina before Game 7, but it was AI who graduated to another level, doling out a career-high 16 assists (including six in the fourth quarter) while scoring 21 -- that's 53 points accounted for -- in a one-point win.

"That was a big step," says Brown. "He said afterward that he was finally on a good team. What I think he was trying to say was, 'I finally learned I can trust my teammates.'"

There were trade rumors around Kobe, too, during an uneven Lakers season plagued by the well publicized Kobe-Shaq struggle. Shaq actually started some of the rumors; on occasion, Jackson called Kobe's character into question, in part for things like telling The Magazine that if he ran the show, the Lakers would sweep opponents rather than allowing every playoff series to go the limit. What seemed outrageous then seems prescient now. Says Brown, "It's impressive what Kobe has done, in spite of what Phil Jackson said about him and -- what probably hurts most -- what his teammates said about him."

Only a few months ago, there would have been grumbling had Kobe taken 35 shots, as he did in Game 1 against the Spurs. But few noticed, because those shots produced 45 points against the league's No. 3 defense, 45 points embroidered with a baseline-driving dunk that victimized both David Robinson and Duncan, a putback dunk over Sean Elliott and Duncan, and a three-point play in which he hit a fading J with Danny Ferry yanking him backward by the shoulder. This while expending even more energy by pressuring Spurs point guard Terry Porter all over the floor.

So why have Kobe and Allen become one-man Perfect Storms when so many others have tried and failed? Well, it's not by accident. Here are some clues:

Sense of entitlement. "Allen came into this league drafted by its worst team and said, 'I'm going to win championships,'" recalls Snow. "That's quite a statement. Not many people think like that." When MJ retired, it was Iverson who spoke up first and declared in these pages that he wanted to be The One.

Kobe had his eye on the same prize right from the start, letting teams know before the draft he'd only play for the Lakers, and then shooting every big shot, whether he was instructed to or not. There was a time when Kobe invited the MJ comparisons; now, with one ring in hand at age 22 and another on the way, the comparisons almost seem too limiting. He won't say it, but he doesn't want to be like Mike -- he expects to be better.

Contrast that with Ray Allen. A hired pitchman for Jordan's clothing line, Ray has told friends he entered the league never imagining he'd play in a conference final. Or VC, who needed Oakley to tell him to stop insisting that it was about the team, not about him. What Kobe and AI understand is that they decide what the team is about.

Playing both ways. Kobe's most surprising impact against the Spurs wasn't his prolific scoring, but the way he pressured Porter bringing up the ball, forcing him to back his way up the court and burn precious seconds off the shot clock. This, of course, is old hat for Kobe, who discovered last season against the Blazers' Scottie Pippen and the Pacers' Mark Jackson and Travis Best how he could control the game's tempo by muzzling the other team's offensive initiator.

Iverson used to be seen continually running by his man in a gamble to pick off the ball, leaving his teammates to deal with the consequences. Now you could see him, in Game 7 against the Raptors, reading Toronto's play, jabbing two fingers at the floor while yelling "Two-Down!" to relay it to the Sixers' bench, then listening for instructions on how to defend it. "As far as Allen has come offensively, he's come twice that far defensively," says Brown. "Before, he was just a guy running around, gambling, while the rest of them stayed at home. Now he's made it a priority." Adds King, "He understands now that every possession counts -- at both ends."

Spreading the wealth. Every player willing and able to put a team on his back has to learn it isn't necessary -- or advantageous -- to try to do it all the time. One, it reduces the element of surprise. Two, you need something in the tank for those closing minutes or crucial rally-stopping moments when an extra step or added lift is needed.

The same Kobe who waved off Karl Malone's pick-and-roll offer in his first All-Star Game is now calling for Shaq or Horace Grant to set a screen -- and dumping it off when both defenders collapse on him. That produced a team-leading and career playoff-high 5.7 assists per game through 10 playoff contests, and still left him as the Lakers' scoring leader with 32.4 a game. "He's so much smarter picking his spots," says Spurs guard Steve Kerr, MJ's former sidekick.

Iverson is just beginning to understand this concept. "A lot of different coaches, family and friends have told me that I should learn the game mentally, because I'm not always going to have this speed," Iverson says. "When I fell on my butt, I realized I couldn't go as fast as I wanted to. I just found my teammates, not just giving them the ball but giving it in spots where they could make shots.

"Maybe that's something that is going to help me. But I feel like if I'm healthy, it'll be the same old thing. I'll be running around trying to use my speed and God-given ability."

Big men need not apply. Duncan, hoping to personally siphon the Lakers' air of invincibility, pleaded with the Spurs coaching staff at the end of Game 1 to let him guard Shaq, a task usually reserved for Robinson and Malik Rose. He forced Shaq into several flat jump hooks and missed spinning layups, then insisted on covering Shaq from the start in Game 2 -- all while still leading the Spurs offense.

We all saw what happened -- he held Shaq to 19 while pouring in 40 himself. But as great as his performance was, the lingering image of Game 2 is a frustrated Duncan getting the ball down low but unable to escape the Lakers' triple-teams in the crucial final minutes.

Shooting guards don't have that problem. Both Kobe and AI can rip a rebound and go coast-to-coast, or shake free for an inbounds pass and then turn and attack. All of which means they can avoid being double-teamed if they choose to stay in the middle of the floor. Or they can dribble to one side and invite the double-team, which is another way to dictate what the defense does. For all that Shaq and Duncan do, they are at the mercy of teammates who must not only get them the ball, but space the floor properly to give them room to operate.

Priming the refs. MJ, says Grant, always drove to the basket on an early possession. The purpose: establish himself as the aggressor while gauging how the officials planned to call the game. If incidental contact drew a whistle, he knew how to play at the other end without expending a foul. If it was going to be a bump-and-grind day, he knew pull-up jumpers were in order. "Kobe is the same way," says Grant, "except Kobe is a little more stubborn. Sometimes he keeps driving, as if he wants to force the refs to call it a certain way."

Iverson relies too much on speed to excel in a heavy-contact game. That's why he'll exaggerate any contact he receives on his first drive or pretend to get knocked sideways going around a screen -- and scream at the officials if a whistle doesn't ensue.

Right time, right place. Brown has a history of constructing one-man bands. He built the systems that showcased David Thompson with the Nuggets, Danny Manning at Kansas, Robinson with the Spurs and Reggie Miller with the Pacers. With Reggie, plays were called to go directly to him, in part because he needed time to rub off his man on multiple screens, in part because he would give up the ball rather than force a shot.

Iverson will hoist it from wherever, whenever, and Brown's system keeps defenses guessing about where Iverson will be. Most of the Sixers' plays are designed to get someone else a shot first, with AI operating as a decoy. The ball rarely swings to him with more than 12 seconds left on the shot clock. When it does, he's as likely to catch it on the right side as the left or on a backdoor cut to the baseline as curling to the top of the key.

Nothing could provide more cover than the triangle offense, because Kobe, as MJ did, can manipulate it on the fly. "When we played Dallas, for example, Dirk Nowitzki was phenomenal and Michael Finley was on fire a couple of times," says Kerr. "But they run plays and they have to call them out, so we always knew what was coming and could prepare accordingly. With L.A., there's never a play, so defenses can't load up on Kobe."

Ask Kobe about any of this and he gets coy, talking in generalities as he sits downstairs at home getting his 'fro tightened up. He credits his grasp of the game to the Lakers coaching staff, particularly triangle creator Tex Winter. Pushed for specifics, the shades of Jordan re-emerge. "I don't want to give away any of my secrets," he says. "Let them figure it out on their own."

Iverson's secret, other than a metabolism that flourishes on fast food and late nights, is that he doesn't have any. From the first minute to the 48th, he is faster than you are and dedicated to proving it on every play. Kobe also has Shaq, along with a veritable spice rack of other options. Iverson's most lethal complementary weapon is McKie. "No disrespect to my other guys," says Brown, "but I think it's remarkable what the kid's able to accomplish knowing the only guy the other team guards is Aaron."

Brown might one day juggle his roster and solve that, but there is no question that the 6'7", 210-pound Bryant is physically better equipped to take over the postseason from start to finish. Everyone in the game marvels at Iverson's toughness, and the fact that he pushed his slightly above-average team to the top of the Eastern Conference is proof that he can last the season. But the two-month playoff marathon, where the contact increases along with the stakes, is another story altogether. You could just feel Philly's vulnerability every time Iverson was knocked to the floor. Brown believes this year's injuries, along with a developing rapport with Alonzo Mourning's trainer, have convinced AI to hit the weight room this summer.

Nothing reflects the impact of this pair of Perfect Storms rampaging through the playoffs better than the altered perspective on MJ's potential return. Mere months ago, the popular response seemed to be, "Thank God!" Now it's, "Why bother?"

This article appears in the June 11 issue of ESPN The Magazine.