MALIBU - Rocky Balboa, seven inches tall and looking cocky, won't follow directions.

Rocky's gotta smile now, but the Italian Stallion's plastic lips are set just like Sylvester Stallone's tough-guy scowl. The closest thing the action figure has to a god picks him up and squeezes him.

The deity is Jeremy Padawer, dressed with a glimmering golden belt cinched tight around his waist and boxing gloves stuffed onto his hands. He brought Rocky into this world. He clutches the tiny figure and barks orders.

"C'mon, Rocky! Let's look victorious here!" Padawer roars. "Whaddya mean, `What's my motivation?' This is (crap)! Get in the game, buddy!"

Coming from anyone else, this conversation with a miniature boxer would seem unusual. From Padawer, it's perfectly logical. Routine, even. As vice president of boys entertainment and pet products marketing for Jakks Pacific Inc., the 33-year-old talks about, and sometimes to, action figures every day.

An unquantifiable blend of mad genius and sharp businessman, Padawer is one of the many men and women who fill up the toy aisle with products that kids, and sometimes their parents, fight over.

When consumers emerge from the hectic scrum that begins the holiday shopping season today, there's a decent chance they'll have one of his unusual toys in their bags.

"He is a nut, he is crazy, but in a good way," said Michael Bernstein, senior vice president of boys marketing and Padawer's boss. "The (reason) why we succeed at Jakks is passion, and he is truly passionate about what he does."

And while an unusual guy enjoying some success in the toy industry isn't out of the ordinary, Padawer is unique. For the past six years, he's built a name for himself based on mania, academics and men in brightly colored shorts.

But before all that, there was just young Jeremy, an impressionable Southern lad with a passion for wrestling. His story eventually references years of intense study, Hong Kong, an over-muscled prince whose best friend is a cowardly cat, and millions of dollars.

But as an adolescent, he was just a guy who used his "Star Wars" figures to stand in for pro wrestlers in make-believe fights.

Passion for wrestling

At age 10, his older brother, Randy, took him to a wrestling match in Knoxville, Tenn., where he watched men named Ox and Mad Dog simulate pounding one another in the ring. Jeremy was hooked.

He collected Hot Wheels, baseball cards, stamps, coins and memorabilia, but his true passion was wrestling. As he grew up, he moved on to guys like One Man Gang and "Dr. Death" Steve Williams, rooting via television and magazine coverage. He went off to college at the University of Texas and kept cheering.

As he got older, Padawer didn't really change much. So, like any good kid at heart, he put off growing up and went on to the University of Tennessee for law school, then Vanderbilt Business School for an MBA. There is, he notes, nothing like spending nine years after high school to find yourself.

And so when it came time to get a real job in 2000, he opted for a pretty whimsical one, working on boys' brands for Mattel Inc. He spent three years on the Hot Wheels brand and reintroducing He-Man and the Masters of the Universe to shelves.

Handling the furry-shorts-wearing hero and the Lords of Evil became a perfect proving ground for the young Padawer, who was recruited away to Jakks three years later to expand its World Wrestling Entertainment figure line.

And that's where his long-running passion for the bizarre world of wrestling became an asset. He knew the essence of the sport, the way its competitors carried themselves, the way they painted their faces. He took on the ambitious task of expanding the line to include the Classic Superstars, historic figures beloved by collectors and diehard fans.

On one hand, this new gig was fantastic, as he was now working on turning his idols in the ring into tiny playthings. On the other, he was dealing with real people. Real people who didn't always leave their king-sized personalities behind when the cameras turned off.

"The actual human beings are happy 95 percent of the time," he said. "But I had a situation where a wrestler, who shall remain nameless, but is big enough to break us all, called me up personally and threatened to kill me. I sweet-talked him to the point where he didn't kill me. Well, not yet, at least."

Plastic artistry

Capturing the attitude, the flair and the all-out intensity of these immense men is not terribly easy. Although new technology, from laser sculpting tools to 360-degree mapping, allows toymakers to render the characters physically accurate, there's still a level of artistry involved in rendering a giant in seven inches of plastic.

"We watch the movies, read the magazines and tape WWE every week," said Leanne Howard, Jakks' director of product development. "If they change costumes on Monday night, we're going to start painting on Tuesday morning."

Those action figures have long played a major role in Jakks' financial fortunes, enabling the Malibu-based company to become one of the toy industry's biggest players in slightly more than a decade. In 2005, it enjoyed net sales of $661.5 million, up from $574.3 million the year before, with WWE figures singled out as a key ingredient.

This year, the company aims to expand its action figure line with a series of toys based on the "Rocky" franchise. It encompasses scaled-down boxing rings, championship belts and gloves that play "Gonna Fly Now," and a slew of action figures.

From the beat- up underdog to the buffed-out world champion, the line replicates characters from the popular series, including the iconic side of beef that Rocky uses as a sparring partner.

That miniature slab of meat sums up the two wildly disparate sides of Padawer's personality: the goofball and the savvy executive melded in one package. While the traditional toys attract kids who want to play, the fake, frozen sirloin pulls in the kind of guy who meticulously sets up scenes on his desk at work. Or the type who squirrels away the unopened container in the hopes he can sell it one day for a higher value.

"Why does the meat exist in Rocky?" he said. "Because it's so damn cool. And the flip side, the business side, is that we knew that if we established a secondary market, we can drive in new collectors. I wouldn't have done this item if there wasn't a business rationale, but it is damn cool."

That sort of swagger is why his office nameplate reads "Cowboy" Jeremy Padawer. No one really calls him "Cowboy," nor does he look particularly buckaroo-ish, but he asked to have the title etched onto the sign just because he could get away with it.

That quirky sensibility has brought in millions of dollars to his employers, a certain vitality to the miniature, plastic men that line his office cabinets and a job he loves in a highly unusual industry.

"I've been hit on the head with board games at my wedding, tackled by men with sumo suits in the middle of the afternoon and punched by the heads of major corporations to `test' the Rocky gloves," Padawer said, his eyes going a little bit dreamy. "And I couldn't imagine ever doing anything else."