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I descended to the basement, wiped the scales I had shunned for many years and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a referee who was bulky and untrained to being lean and conditioned. It had required effort, filled with patience, tough decisions and focus. But it was also the beginning of a transformation that gradually meant anxiety, strain and disquiet around the tests that the top management had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a good umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a top-level referee, that the body mass and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, getting fewer matches and ending up in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina introduced a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, weigh-ins and body fat, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might seem like a expected practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the courses they not only examined basic things like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also more specific tests designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were discovered as color deficient. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but no one knew for sure – because about the outcomes of the vision test, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It indicated expertise, attention to detail and a aim to enhance.

Concerning tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt disgust, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was compelled to undergo the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were split into three teams of about 15. When my group had entered the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to meet, the supervisors instructed us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our garments. The prior evening, we had received specific orders not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, role models, adults, family providers, confident individuals with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were summoned as duos. There the chief examined us from head to toe with an chilling look. Silent and attentive. We mounted the scale one by one. I sucked in my stomach, stood erect 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 Collina hesitated, looked at me and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be evaluated and judged.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer came forward 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 measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer pressed, drew, forced, quantified, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and squeezed my dermis and adipose tissue. After each test site, he declared the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no idea what the figures stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant recorded the figures into a record, and when all four values had been calculated, the document quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

What stopped us from rise and say what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously executed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or opposed the techniques that Collina had enforced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also desired to become fitter, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you shouldn't be heavy, equally obvious you should be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an plan where the primary focus was to lose weight and minimise your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that followed the same pattern. Weight check, body fat assessment, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got information about our fitness statistics – pointers indicating if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong