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I went to the cellar, dusted off the scales I had avoided for several years and glanced at the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was heavy and unfit to being slender and fit. It had taken time, packed with persistence, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a transformation that slowly introduced pressure, strain and unease around the assessments that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a elite umpire, that the mass and adipose levels were right, otherwise you faced being penalized, getting fewer matches and landing in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on physique, weigh-ins and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might seem like a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the training programs they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also targeted assessments tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some referees were found to be colour blind. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the whispers suggested, but nobody was certain – because about the outcomes of the eyesight exam, nothing was revealed in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It demonstrated expertise, meticulousness and a goal to improve.

Regarding weighing assessments and body fat, however, I largely sensed aversion, anger and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the officials were split into three groups of about 15. When my group had walked into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to meet, the management directed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our garments. The prior evening, we had obtained specific orders not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, caregivers, confident individuals with great integrity … but nobody spoke. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were invited as duos. There Collina examined us from completely with an ice-cold gaze. Quiet and attentive. We stepped onto the scale one by one. I contracted my stomach, adjusted my posture and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how Collina hesitated, observed me and scanned my nearly naked body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be examined and assessed.

I stepped off the scale and it seemed like I was in a daze. The equivalent coach approached with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The coach squeezed, pulled, applied pressure, quantified, measured again, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and compressed my epidermis and body fat. After each measurement area, he called out the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no understanding what the values signified, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An helper recorded the figures into a record, and when all readings had been calculated, the document swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or somebody else, say anything?

What stopped us from rise and say what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently executed my end of my officiating path. If I had challenged or resisted the techniques that Collina had enforced then I would have been denied any games, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become more athletic, reduce my mass and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was evident you shouldn't be heavy, equally obvious you should be conditioned – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the most important thing was to lose weight and lower your adipose level.

Our two annual courses after that maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, fitness exams, laws of the game examinations, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got data about our body metrics – pointers showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong