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I descended to the basement, wiped the balance I had avoided for a long time and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was bulky and untrained to being slender and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of patience, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that gradually meant stress, strain and unease around the examinations that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a elite referee, that the body mass and adipose levels were appropriate, otherwise you faced being penalized, being allocated fewer games and landing in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina enacted a number of changes. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on physique, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the courses they not only examined elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also targeted assessments adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip said, but no one knew for sure – because concerning the results of the vision test, nothing was revealed in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It indicated expertise, meticulousness and a desire to improve.

When it came to body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I primarily experienced aversion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my unit had entered the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to assemble, the supervisors instructed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our attire. The prior evening, we had been given clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, family providers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were summoned in pairs. There the chief observed us from head to toe with an frigid gaze. Quiet and attentive. We mounted the balance singly. I sucked in my belly, stood erect and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the chief hesitated, observed me and inspected my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and forced to be here and be examined and assessed.

I descended from the balance and it appeared as if I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach approached with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer pressed, pulled, forced, quantified, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and squeezed my skin and adipose tissue. After each test site, he declared the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no clue what the values stood for, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An helper entered the numbers into a record, and when all four values had been calculated, the record quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why didn't I, or any other person, say anything?

Why couldn't we get to our feet and say what each person felt: that it was degrading. If I had voiced my concerns I would have at the same time executed my career's death sentence. If I had challenged or resisted the methods that the chief had introduced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become fitter, weigh less and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you must not be heavy, similarly apparent you ought to be in shape – and sure, maybe the complete roster of officials required a professionalisation. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an plan where the most important thing was to lose weight and reduce your fat percentage.

Our twice-yearly trainings subsequently adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got information about our physical profile – arrows indicating if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five categories. An approved result was if you {belong