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I descended to the basement, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for many years and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was bulky and untrained to being lean and well trained. It had required effort, filled with persistence, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the start of a change that gradually meant stress, pressure and discomfort around the assessments that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a top-level official, that the mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you risked being penalized, being allocated fewer games and landing in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina enacted a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, body mass assessments and body fat, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might sound like a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but nobody was certain – because regarding the findings of the eyesight exam, nothing was revealed in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It indicated expertise, thoroughness and a desire to improve.

When it came to body mass examinations and body fat, however, I mostly felt disgust, irritation and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the umpires were separated into three teams of about 15. When my group had entered the spacious, cool conference room where we were to assemble, the supervisors instructed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our clothes. The evening before, we had been given clear instructions 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 weighing as little as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the standard.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, role models, mature individuals, parents, confident individuals with high principles … but nobody spoke. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were summoned as duos. There the chief observed us from top to bottom with an chilling look. Quiet and watchful. We mounted the weighing machine individually. I contracted my abdomen, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how the chief hesitated, observed me and inspected my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and obliged to remain here and be evaluated and assessed.

I descended from the weighing machine and it felt like I was disoriented. The equivalent coach advanced with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cold and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor pressed, tugged, forced, measured, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and pinched 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 numbers represented, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide inputted the figures into a document, and when all readings had been established, the record quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or any other person, speak up?

What stopped us from rise and say what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously signed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or resisted the methods that the boss had introduced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also wanted to become fitter, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you ought not to be heavy, just as clear you must be in shape – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps needed a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an plan where the most important thing was to lose weight and minimise your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter followed the same pattern. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, rule tests, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got facts about our physical profile – pointers showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong