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I descended to the basement, cleaned the weighing machine I had evaded for many years and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was overweight and out of shape to being slender and well trained. It had demanded dedication, packed with persistence, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the start of a shift that progressively brought stress, strain and discomfort around the examinations that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a top-level referee, that the mass and body fat were right, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and landing in the sidelines.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the summer of 2010, the leading figure brought in a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the courses they not only tested fundamental aspects like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also more specific tests tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were discovered as colour blind. Another proved to be blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers said, but no one knew for sure – because about the results of the vision test, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a comfort. It signalled expertise, thoroughness and a aim to enhance.

Regarding weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed disgust, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the method of implementation.

The first time I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the referees were divided into three teams of about 15. When my group had stepped into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to meet, the leadership directed us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our clothes. The evening before, we had obtained specific orders not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to appear as a official should according to the standard.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, top sportsmen, exemplars, adults, parents, strong personalities with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit nervously while we were called forward two by two. There Collina examined us from head to toe with an frigid gaze. Silent and watchful. We stepped onto the balance individually. I pulled in my abdomen, stood erect and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how Collina hesitated, observed me and surveyed my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and forced to remain here and be inspected and critiqued.

I descended from the balance and it felt like I was disoriented. The same instructor came forward with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on assorted regions of the body. The pinching instrument, as the tool was called, was cold and I started a little every time it made contact.

The trainer compressed, drew, applied pressure, measured, rechecked, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and compressed my epidermis and fatty deposits. After each test site, he called out the metric reading he could assess.

I had no clue what the values stood for, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide inputted the figures into a record, and when all four values had been established, the file swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

Why didn't we rise and express what each person felt: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently signed my professional demise. If I had challenged or resisted the procedures that Collina had introduced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also aimed to become more athletic, weigh less and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was clear you ought not to be heavy, equally obvious you must be fit – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the key objective was to shed pounds and reduce your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got facts about our body metrics – pointers pointing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Fat percentages were classified into five categories. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong