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I descended to the basement, dusted off the weighing machine I had avoided for several years and observed the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being light and fit. It had required effort, full of persistence, tough decisions and commitments. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that gradually meant stress, tension and disquiet around the assessments that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a elite umpire, that the body mass and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina introduced a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on body shape, measurements of weight and body fat, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might seem like a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the courses they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also more specific tests adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires 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 rumours suggested, but everyone was unsure – because about the results of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a goal to enhance.

Concerning tests of weight and body fat, however, I mostly felt revulsion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The first time I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the initial session, the referees were separated into three groups of about 15. When my team had entered the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to gather, the supervisors instructed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our garments. The evening before, we had received clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the standard.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, inspirations, grown-ups, caregivers, strong personalities with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were summoned as duos. There the chief examined us from top to bottom with an chilling stare. Silent and attentive. We mounted the weighing machine individually. I pulled in my belly, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the boss hesitated, observed me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be examined and critiqued.

I stepped off the scale and it appeared as if I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer came forward with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The instructor squeezed, tugged, forced, quantified, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and compressed my dermis and fatty deposits. After each test site, he called out the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no understanding what the values signified, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An helper entered the values into a file, and when all four values had been established, the record quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why didn't I, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we get to our feet and say what everyone thought: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time executed my professional demise. If I had questioned or challenged the procedures that the chief had enforced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become fitter, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you must be fit – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an agenda where the key objective was to shed pounds and lower your adipose level.

Our biannual sessions thereafter maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, rule tests, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – indicators indicating if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Body fat levels were categorised into five tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong