If it were up to Bernie Cantorna, he'd be coaching rugby instead of practicing law.

James Bryant, his law partner, once mailed a stocking full of coal to a judge who sent his client to prison.

In the words of Robert Frost, their law office takes the "road less traveled," Cantorna said.

This includes two of their current cases -- high-profile lawsuits that pit Bryant and Cantorna against the legal teams of Penn State and Centre County. Bryant's taking on the university, representing an unsanctioned fraternity fighting to keep its 100-year-old house; Cantorna's advocating on the behalf of a domestic abuse victim who said a former county prosecutor sexually harassed her.

These are the types of cases they relish, Cantorna said. The only time he enjoys being a lawyer is when he's representing someone he believes has been wronged.

"Both of us abhor the corruption of absolute power," Bryant said. "Rather than saying this is the way it's done and they are big shots, we rail against that."

That's nothing new, Cantorna said. He grew up dreaming of prosecuting white-collar criminals in Chicago and has been representing the "little guy" throughout his career.

Over the years the pair has established a track record of success in handling cases no one else would take, he said.

Bryant earned the respect of the Amish community by making farm calls and charging reasonable fees, while Cantorna once helped a woman win more than a million dollars in a lawsuit against another attorney, taboo in the legal community.

But that's not the only thing that separates Bryant and Cantorna from other lawyers, Bryant said.

While many of the their colleagues are "boring stupid f---s," Bryant said, he references books, history and popular culture while presenting his argument to the judge -- making him more effective and interesting, he said.

"Every argument you see is blah blah, blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah, blah blah," he said. "Neither Bernie or I are blah-blah persons. So f--- 'em if they are mad at me."

Both men have lives beyond the law. Cantorna plays rugby to clear his head. A co-founder of State College Area High School's rugby club, he said he would make a career coaching if it paid enough.

Meanwhile, Bryant lives in a farmhouse restored to its original 19th-century condition and has a collection of animals that includes five goats and a three-legged cat, he said. He teaches scuba diving and whitewater canoeing, spending his spare time crafting woodwork and watching NASCAR.

To Bryant -- whose desk features a photo of him with NASCAR legend Rusty Wallace -- life imitates NASCAR. Just as a driver given a perfect car can "screw it up in the pits," a lawyer can lose the perfect case in court.

Their belief in the judicial system, which includes honesty with the judge, helps avoid mishaps, Bryant said.

"When Bernie and I come to court, the judges know that if we don't have it, we're gonna let them know we don't have it," he said. "We know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away and know when to run."

Bryant made waves in January in his rebuttal to the university's lawsuit against the owners of the former Phi Delta Theta fraternity house. He said Penn State President Graham Spanier acted with "unclean hands" in an attempt to purchase the property, and Spanier wanted to construct a building with his namesake.

Spanier responded, calling the claim an attempt "either to agitate or amuse."

Sandy Deveney, a member of the former Phi Delta Theta fraternity's board of directors, said Bryant's wit is part of his persona.

"Some of us have described him as House's brother who became a lawyer," Deveney said, referencing the popular TV show. "A lot of the points he makes when he makes those comments -- he's right on the money."

Deveney also said he appreciates there's no "smoke and mirrors" behind the law office.

"They call it like it is," he said. "They don't try to sugarcoat anything."