Kovacevic: Who would dare claim Cutch's locker?

This wasn't exactly a fine time for a surprise.

The Pirates' charter flight from Detroit had finally landed at 1:30 a.m. Monday, this following an unscheduled day-night doubleheader, two rainouts, a mess of additional mayhem over the three games that eventually got played and ... oh, yeah, they'd all have to report to PNC Park in a few hours.

For the home opener.

"Crazy, man. Just crazy," Sean Rodriguez would tell me after that opener, one his team took from the Twins, 5-4. "All of us were kind of out of it. I'm still kind of out of it."

So try to picture the collective state of mind upon the team bus motoring from Pittsburgh International Airport to the ballpark, about a half-hour later. It was 2 a.m. now, and players were still required to check in at the home clubhouse, a place they hadn't seen since last season, before heading home for a handful of hours of sleep.

Rodriguez was met at the clubhouse door by Scott Bonnett, the equipment manager, sporting a serious expression. Both of which were strange. Understand that Bonnett's nickname is 'Bones.' A ton of people don't even know his real name. He's just 'Bones,' habitually grinning and goofing.

"There might be a switch in lockers," was all Bones would say.

Oh, this was serious. In the sporting culture, that's heart-attack serious.

Bones silently walked Rodriguez through the room, right past where his locker stall long had been, and they kept right on walking. All the way to the far end. To the stall that, forever and ever, had been engraved with the number 22.

"Oh, no way," Rodriguez would recall basically whispering to Bones upon seeing No. 3 up there instead. "Seriously?"

Repeat: This was serious.

Rodriguez stopped dead in his tracks and, per his recollection, gave it a moment. Deep breath. Semi-deep thoughts. And next, he smiled, reached for his cell, snapped a pic and texted it to out to one of his closest friends way out in San Francisco.

"I'm in Andrew McCutchen's stall. It's an honor. I'm honored," Rodriguez would say. This was much later, to me, with his eyes gradually climbing back up to the No. 3 again. He was getting a little emotional now. "I mean, are you kidding me? I definitely don't think I have enough socks to fill in his shoes. But I'll do my best."

The only filling Rodriguez needs to do on the field is what he did in that home opener, grabbing a shortstop's glove when Jordy Mercer went down with a finger injury and ramming a single through the left side in the eighth inning. That's the super-utility role at which he's been super for a decade now at the top level.

But the clubhouse, that's different. That's culture.

When Mario Lemieux retired -- and no, I'm not comparing anyone to Lemieux because I never do -- the Penguins left his locker stall at the Civic Arena empty for years, even though it was in the most prominent spot at an edge near the main door. It was understood why, and it wasn't just about respect. It was because no one else would want it.

Well, Cutch's stall was in a similarly prominent spot, central at one end and closest to all of the team's training facilities. Anyone would want it. A rookie could only fantasize about such stature.

And yet, this particular clubhouse wasn't going to pull off leaving it empty, even for a brief time. For one, space isn't unlimited, and that goes double once September callups are made. For another, as much as Cutch remains revered, this team's also dead-set against being labeled as some post-Cutch remnants.

Remember that edge I described in Detroit?

It's real, and I don't say that just because the Pirates are 4-0 and playing, for the most part, pretty good ball.

Take it directly from Rodriguez.

"We definitely feel a little disrespected," he'd say. "When we hear the commentators and the people around the league about where we're picked to finish or how we're only going to win a certain amount of games ... the games haven't been played yet, you know? So let's show 'em. Let's win the game we're playing today, and then do the same thing the next day. We know we've got what it takes, but we also know we've got to do it together. We've got to play for each other. That's the only way it'll work."

He laughed a little.

"I mean, you can call it an edge, you can call it a chip or whatever. But we've got each other's backs in here right now. I believe that."

Rodriguez isn't exactly known for soft-selling such stuff, as was powerfully evident in the spring when he spoke of Cutch being "irreplaceable" and tearing into the Pirates' front office for badly bungling the post-2015 offseason and the best chance of a generation to win a World Series. He tells it like it is.

There couldn't be a void left there in any capacity, and there was only one choice to fill it.

"Just one," Josh Harrison would tell me from the adjacent stall, same as always. "With the respect Sean commands in here as a veteran leader, with the connection he's always had with Cutch ... I told him myself today, he's just too perfect for this."

And why not J-Hay himself, since he, too, is close to Cutch and wouldn't have had to move far?

"You kidding? I gotta keep an eye on this guy over here, keep him red-shot. We need this guy."

He motioned to Gregory Polanco's stall to the other side of his own. File that, too, under clubhouse culture.

MATT SUNDAY GALLERY