Stephen Curry is a man locked into his rhythms and routines and, in the Assist Man, Curry has found his perfect partner in crime.

The Assist Man is Curtis Jones, an Oracle Arena security guard stationed at one corner of the Warriors’ bench. Wearing a coat and tie, he feeds Curry passes for his famous pregame Tunnel Shot.

The shot defines an era that is coming to a close. Sometime between now and the end of the NBA playoffs, Curry will hoist up his final Tunnel Shot. Chase Center will have a different configuration, so the shot will end where it started.

“There’s something special about it being at Oracle,” Curry said. “I don’t want to have to try to re-create it (at Chase). Might be something different.”

But for now, Curry and the Assist Man will lock in.

Curry’s pregame warm-up routine is as tightly choreographed as a scene in “Hamilton.” After his dribbling routine and his awe-inspiring shooting exercise, Curry heads to the tunnel leading to the locker room and sets up for the grand finale.

Hundreds of fans crowd ascending rows of seats around the tunnel, leaning over railings, as excited as spectators at a rocket launch.

Sunday’s game Who: Clippers (47-33) at Warriors (55-24) What: Final regular-season game at Oracle Arena When: 5:30 p.m. TV: NBCSBA Radio: 95.7

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Jones — who has kept the ball under a folding chair — is ready. You don’t make Curry wait while you scramble around, looking for a ball. Jones stands 15 feet from Curry and underhands a crisp pass that Curry catches chest-high, and launches.

If the shot misses, even though there might be 10 other balls flying around the court, that same ball is retrieved and delivered back to the Assist Man, who feeds Curry again.

When Curry makes the shot, there is an explosion of joy. Kids have seen something they will tell their grandkids about. Grandparents have seen something they’ll tell their kids about.

The Assist Man quietly exchanges a handshake and a word with Curry, and resumes his job of directing traffic at the Bay Area’s most hectic intersection.

“I heard Steph say, ‘Curtis enjoys the shot just as much as I do,’” said Jones, who has worked security at the Coliseum complex since 1994. “And I do, because I see how serious he is, and I’m kind of a serious-oriented person, too, and I’m a competitor. Even though I know it’s just a tunnel shot, to him there’s a real commitment to making it. He’s really sincere, and I’m sincere. I like to get the pass where he wants it.”

Curry picked up the shot years ago from former teammate Monta Ellis, who did it at practice. The shot has evolved into a game-night spectacle, and a ritual.

“He makes sure he picks the right ball,” Curry said of Jones. “He hides it underneath the chair. When I miss it and they throw it back to me, it has to be that same exact ball. He clears everybody out of the aisle. He’s the protector.”

Sometimes as Curry comes off the court, Jones will tell him there’s a child there who is disabled, or challenged, or injured, and Curry will make a quick side trip to say hi and give the youngster the famous Steph smile.

Jones makes sure the littlest fans don’t get crushed, that they get closest to where Curry will pass by, handing out high-fives.

There’s a strict rule: The guards can’t let anyone get to Curry. But sometimes Curry or Jones will notice a certain kid, and they will exchange a look or a nod. Let’s just say that “accidents” happen.

“It’s amazing the effect he has on kids,” said Jones, who — with his wife, Gail, is raising their 10-year-old grandson, Kamari. “I respect and appreciate him for that. It bothers me to see a child disappointed and hurt, Curry means that much to them. ... I really want to see this child leave happy. You never know how far (interaction with Curry) will take a kid, what kind of confidence it will give him, self-esteem.”

Jones knows all about being shy, being the outsider. He was born in Monroe, La., and moved to Oakland with his family in 1967, when he was in ninth grade. The next year he entered Oakland Tech.

Jones could run. Kids called him Rabbit and Super Bee. The football coach noticed and told Curtis to go out for cross-country, to prep for football. Jones elected not to, and when he showed up for football, the coach said no dice.

“We got into a big argument,” Jones said. “We exchanged harsh words. He was big and fast, and he started to chase me, but he couldn’t catch me.”

So much for high school sports. Jones was more into his studies. His dad wasn’t interested in sports and didn’t encourage him, and Curtis had three sisters. There was a hoop in the driveway on 41st street, and he shot alone for hours. He was Dave Bing and George Gervin and Earl Monroe. He would run up to a garage, plant his foot against the door and push up to dunk. His legs got so strong that the 5-foot-9 youngster could dunk without using the door.

Around Oakland, Jones became a playground whiz with a killer jump shot.

“I hated that I couldn’t get a chance to play (high school or college ball),” Jones said quietly. “Never got a chance to be trained by real coaches.”

Now the kid who missed that chance is dishing out assists at the highest level of the game, to the NBA’s all-time greatest shooter.

But not for long. Jones doesn’t know if he’ll have the same job, or any job, at Chase Center. Regardless, there will be no Tunnel Shot. Enjoy it while you can.

Scott Ostler is a San Francisco Chronicle columnist. Email: sostler@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @scottostler