t HE best advice for anyone planning a trip to either Dublin or Paris this weekend is that they should probably pack their wellies for the journey, for the cities are likely to be awash with tears as two giants of world rugby bid emotional farewells to the games they have graced with such distinction for the past decade and a half.

It is a remarkable and poignant coincidence that both Brian O'Driscoll and Jonny Wilkinson should take their leave of rugby on the same day. But perfectly fitting, too, that the pair will go out at the very top in the febrile atmospheres of two cup finals. O'Driscoll's swansong will be at the RDS, as Leinster and Glasgow go hammer and tongs with the RaboDirect PRO12 title at stake, while Wilkinson will say his au revoir in the Stade de France, wearing the No.10 shirt of Toulon for the very last time as they take on Castres in the Top 14 decider.

Wilkinson was World Player of the Year in 2003, a certain dropped goal in that year's World Cup final nailing the title - and the Webb Ellis trophy - for the Englishman. Astonishingly, the award eluded O'Driscoll, but he was a serial nominee for the shortlist. O'Driscoll played through a golden era for Ireland, but their failure to peak in World Cup years probably counted against him. Had he been a New Zealander or a South African he would have won a stack of the things.

Objectively, it is impossible to say who has been the greater player. O'Driscoll is ahead on caps - 133 for Ireland and eight Lions Tests against Wilkinson's 91 for England plus six with the Lions - but the figures would surely have been more equal had the middle years of Wilkinson's career not been ravaged by injury. O'Driscoll scored 47 international tries while Wilkinson delivered 1246 international points, all but 35 of them with his boot. In terms of numbers we are looking at apples and pears.

But what of the subjective measures? The picture will only become clear in a few years' time, with the benefit of hindsight and time's telescope. But I have a sneaking suspicion already that O'Driscoll will be the more fondly remembered figure. He played a game based on instinct, intuition and almost other-worldly ball skills; Wilkinson, for the most part, played the percentages.

Of course, that distinction is misleading and inadequate. To caricature O'Driscoll as a mercurial will-o'-the-wisp is to overlook his credentials as one of the greatest defensive midfielders. Only recently, a former Scotland forward of recent vintage told me that O'Driscoll would figure high on any list of players he would least like to meet at the breakdown, an opinion that paid tacit tribute to the Irishman's raw strength as well as his unrivalled gift for pilfering possession.

Similarly, there has always been much more to Wilkinson than those who would portray him as a one-dimensional rugby automaton are prepared to admit. Yes, he kept his genie in the bottle for most of his career, but when he let it out he revealed an ability to thrill as well. Anyone who doubts that aspect of his game would be well advised to look out some old footage of his performance for England against Scotland at Twickenham in 2007. It was the first time he had represented his country in more than three years, but his all-round brilliance (and his personal haul of 27 points) reminded us of what a special talent he had.

And yet, I'm still not sure that Wilkinson's influence on rugby has been entirely benign. As much as I admire the fellow, I utter a quiet curse every time I watch a young player going through the preposterously convoluted praying-mantis pre-kick routine that Wilkinson popularised. On one level, you can hardly question the technique of a player whose percentages provided the benchmark for every other goal-kicker on earth, but you can probably still blame him for planting the idea that every talentless hoofer should follow his lead.

In fact, I do feel a tad uneasy that Wilkinson is routinely hailed as the model professional. Almost every profile of him focuses on his relentless dedication, his endless hours of practice, his obsessive single-mindedness and his all-consuming pursuit of rugby perfection. The message, subliminal or not, is that anyone can be a Jonny Wilkinson if they only put in the hours. I beg to suggest that this is utter codswallop.

It was Wilkinson's good fortune to be born with more talent than most players could ever dream of owning or developing. He honed it, polished it and grooved it through repetition, but he most certainly did not create it on the training pitch. The myth that he did is a convenient fiction for PE teachers who want to cajole their charges along.

The example of Wilkinson recalls that of Nick Faldo, who famously re-engineered his swing under the tutelage of David Leadbetter in the mid-1980s, and then went on to win six majors. In doing so, Faldo became the poster boy for the theory that a great player could be created on the practice range. A host of others tried to follow his example in attempts to match his achievements. The only flaw was that Faldo had been a great player by the time he got together with Leadbetter, with four Ryder Cup appearances under his belt.

The comparison between Faldo and Wilkinson is all the more inviting as a similar link can be drawn between O'Driscoll and Seve Ballesteros. While Faldo was grinding through the gears in an effort to build a swing that would take him into the golfing stratosphere, Ballesteros pretty much trusted the sorcerous gifts he was born with. He ended his career with five major titles, just one fewer than Faldo achieved.

It is the age-old contest between perspiration and inspiration. Wilkinson (and Faldo) and O'Driscoll (and Ballesteros) can be admired for different reasons. You don't have to take sides. But when it came to inspiring a generation of youngsters, there's no question that Ballesteros wielded a far greater influence than Faldo. I suspect that O'Driscoll will hold a similar place in posterity's affections.