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I ventured to the cellar, wiped the weighing machine I had shunned for several years and observed the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a referee who was heavy and out of shape to being lean and well trained. It had taken time, packed with patience, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the start of a transformation that gradually meant stress, tension and discomfort around the examinations that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about prioritising diet, looking like a premier umpire, that the body mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you risked being disciplined, receiving less assignments and finding yourself in the cold.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the 2010 summer season, the leading figure introduced a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on body shape, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might appear as a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the training programs they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a particular length, but also more specific tests tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were found to be colour blind. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the rumours said, but nobody was certain – because about the outcomes of the vision test, nothing was revealed in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It demonstrated expertise, meticulousness and a aim to get better.

Concerning body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt revulsion, anger and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the referees were divided into three teams of about 15. When my group had walked into the spacious, cool conference room where we were to assemble, the management urged us to undress to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our clothes. The evening before, we had been given specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, top sportsmen, exemplars, mature individuals, family providers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were called forward two by two. There the chief observed us from top to bottom with an chilling look. Mute and watchful. We mounted the scale singly. I contracted my stomach, straightened my back and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I sensed how Collina paused, glanced my way and scanned my almost bare body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and forced to be here and be evaluated and assessed.

I alighted from the balance and it seemed like I was in a daze. The same instructor advanced with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the device was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor pressed, pulled, forced, quantified, rechecked, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and squeezed my epidermis and body fat. After each test site, he called out the measurement in mm he could gauge.

I had no clue what the values signified, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An helper inputted the figures into a file, and when all measurements had been determined, the record quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My value was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why did I not, or somebody else, speak up?

What stopped us from rise and express what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently signed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or opposed the techniques that the boss had implemented then I wouldn't have got any fixtures, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become more athletic, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be heavy, equally obvious you ought to be fit – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps needed a standardization. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the most important thing was to reduce mass and reduce your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that followed the same pattern. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, fitness exams, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a file, we all got information about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

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