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I went to the cellar, cleaned the scales I had shunned for a long time and looked at the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a referee who was heavy and unfit to being lean and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of determination, hard calls and focus. But it was also the start of a shift that progressively brought anxiety, pressure and discomfort around the tests that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about prioritising diet, looking like a elite referee, that the body mass and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you risked being disciplined, receiving less assignments and ending up in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was replaced during the 2010 summer season, the head official brought in a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might sound like a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the sessions they not only tested basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also specialized examinations tailored to professional football referees.

Some officials were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another proved to be lacking vision in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the whispers said, but no one knew for sure – because about the findings of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It demonstrated professionalism, attention to detail and a goal to improve.

When it came to tests of weight and body fat, however, I mostly felt revulsion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the umpires were split 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 strip down to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our clothes. The evening before, we had received clear instructions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a official should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, exemplars, adults, family providers, confident individuals with great integrity … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were invited as duos. There Collina observed us from completely with an chilling stare. Mute and watchful. We stepped onto the balance one by one. I contracted my abdomen, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the boss hesitated, glanced my way and scanned my almost bare body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to be here and be evaluated and assessed.

I descended from the balance and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer advanced with a kind of pliers, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The instructor pressed, tugged, pressed, quantified, reassessed, spoke unclearly, squeezed once more and pinched my epidermis and body fat. After each test site, he declared the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no idea what the numbers signified, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It required about a minute. An aide inputted the figures into a record, and when all four values had been established, the document swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why did I not, or any other person, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we rise and say what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have at the same time sealed my professional demise. If I had challenged or challenged the procedures that Collina had enforced then I would not have received any games, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become more athletic, reduce my mass and achieve my objective, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be heavy, just as clear you ought to be in shape – and sure, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an plan where the primary focus was to shed pounds and lower your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got data about our body metrics – arrows pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong