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I went to the lower level, cleaned the weighing machine I had avoided for many years and looked at the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was bulky and out of shape to being slender and well trained. It had demanded dedication, packed with persistence, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the start of a transformation that gradually meant pressure, tension and discomfort around the examinations that the top management had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a competent official, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a top-level referee, that the mass and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you faced being penalized, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure enacted a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might sound like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the sessions they not only tested elementary factors like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also more specific tests adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were discovered as colour blind. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours claimed, but everyone was unsure – because about the findings of the eyesight exam, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It indicated expertise, attention to detail and a aim to get better.

Concerning body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed revulsion, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the referees were divided into three units of about 15. When my group had walked into the big, chilly conference room where we were to assemble, the supervisors urged us to undress to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our garments. The prior evening, we had received specific orders not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to appear as a referee should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, role models, mature individuals, parents, strong personalities with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were summoned two by two. There Collina scrutinized us from completely with an frigid gaze. Quiet and watchful. We mounted the weighing machine singly. I sucked in my abdomen, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how Collina paused, looked at me and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and compelled to be here and be examined and judged.

I descended from the scale and it appeared as if I was in a daze. The same instructor approached with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach squeezed, tugged, forced, quantified, rechecked, spoke unclearly, squeezed once more and squeezed my epidermis and body fat. After each assessment point, he declared the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no clue what the values signified, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An helper inputted the values into a document, and when all readings had been determined, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

What prevented me from, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from get to our feet and express what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or opposed the procedures that the chief had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also wanted to become fitter, be lighter and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you must not be overweight, just as clear you ought to be conditioned – and admittedly, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a standardization. But it was improper to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the most important thing was to reduce mass and minimise your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, fitness exams, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got information about our physical profile – arrows indicating if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five groups. An approved result was if you {belong