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I went to the cellar, cleaned the weighing machine I had avoided for a long time and observed the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a referee who was heavy and out of shape to being slender and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, filled with determination, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the start of a transformation that progressively brought pressure, strain and disquiet around the examinations that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a premier referee, that the weight and body fat were correct, otherwise you faced being disciplined, receiving less assignments and landing in the cold.

When the officiating body was replaced during the summer of 2010, the head official enacted a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physique, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might seem like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also specialized examinations adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the whispers said, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the results of the vision test, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It indicated expertise, meticulousness and a aim to enhance.

When it came to tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt revulsion, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the umpires were divided into three groups of about 15. When my team had entered the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to gather, the leadership instructed us to strip down to our underwear. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our attire. The prior evening, we had been given 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 weighing as little as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to look like a official should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, inspirations, grown-ups, caregivers, confident individuals with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were invited two by two. There Collina scrutinized us from completely with an ice-cold gaze. Silent and attentive. We stepped onto the weighing machine singly. I contracted my belly, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how Collina paused, observed me and inspected my partially unclothed body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and forced to stand here and be inspected and critiqued.

I stepped off the scale and it seemed like I was disoriented. The identical trainer approached with a kind of pliers, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The pinching instrument, as the device was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it made contact.

The trainer compressed, drew, applied pressure, measured, measured again, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and squeezed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each test site, he announced the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures stood for, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant recorded the numbers into a document, and when all four values had been determined, the document swiftly determined my overall body fat. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or any other person, voice an opinion?

Why didn't we rise and say what each person felt: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time signed my professional demise. If I had doubted or resisted the techniques that the boss had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also wanted to become more athletic, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you must not be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you ought to be fit – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials required a standardization. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the key objective was to reduce mass and lower your fat percentage.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, fitness exams, rule tests, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a document, we all got data about our physical profile – pointers pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Fat percentages were grouped into five tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong