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I ventured to the cellar, cleaned the balance I had evaded for several years and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and untrained to being light and fit. It had taken time, filled with persistence, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a change that gradually meant anxiety, tension and unease around the assessments that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a good umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a top-level official, that the weight and adipose levels were right, otherwise you faced being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and landing in the cold.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the head official brought in a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, measurements of weight and body fat, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might seem like a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also specialized examinations tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but nobody was certain – because regarding the findings of the eyesight exam, nothing was revealed in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a reassurance. It signalled professionalism, attention to detail and a aim to enhance.

Concerning body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt disgust, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the umpires were separated into three groups of about 15. When my group had stepped into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to gather, the management directed us to strip down to our underwear. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our clothes. The previous night, we had received explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the standard.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, exemplars, adults, caregivers, strong personalities with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were invited in pairs. There Collina scrutinized us from completely with an frigid look. Mute and attentive. We mounted the weighing machine individually. I pulled in my belly, straightened my back and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how the boss stopped, glanced my way and scanned my almost bare body. I mused that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and compelled to be here and be examined and critiqued.

I alighted from the balance and it appeared as if I was standing in a fog. The same instructor 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 pinching instrument, as the device was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The coach pressed, drew, forced, quantified, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and squeezed my skin and body fat. After each measurement area, he declared the metric reading he could assess.

I had no understanding what the numbers represented, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An aide recorded the figures into a document, and when all measurements had been calculated, the file quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from stand up and express what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently signed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or opposed the procedures that the boss had enforced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also aimed to become more athletic, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you ought to be fit – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials required a professionalisation. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an plan where the primary focus was to reduce mass and minimise your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter followed the same pattern. Weight check, adipose evaluation, running tests, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got information about our physical profile – arrows pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong