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I went to the cellar, wiped the balance I had evaded for many years and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was bulky and out of shape to being lean and conditioned. It had taken time, packed with patience, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that slowly introduced anxiety, strain and unease around the tests that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a top-level official, that the weight and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you faced being penalized, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the head official brought in a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might seem like a given practice, but it had not been before. At the training programs they not only examined basic things like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also more specific tests tailored to professional football referees.

Some umpires were found to be color deficient. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the outcomes of the optical assessment, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It demonstrated professionalism, thoroughness and a aim to enhance.

When it came to weighing assessments and body fat, however, I largely sensed disgust, irritation and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my group had entered the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to gather, the management urged us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our attire. The prior evening, we had obtained clear instructions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the standard.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, parents, assertive characters with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We hardly peered at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were invited as duos. There the chief scrutinized us from top to bottom with an chilling gaze. Mute and attentive. We stepped on the weighing machine individually. I sucked in my abdomen, straightened my back and stopped inhaling as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how Collina hesitated, looked at me and surveyed my nearly naked body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an adult and compelled to stand here and be examined and critiqued.

I descended from the balance and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The equivalent coach approached with a kind of pliers, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the tool was called, was cool and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer squeezed, pulled, pressed, measured, reassessed, spoke unclearly, squeezed once more and compressed my dermis and body fat. After each assessment point, he announced the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no idea what the figures stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide entered the values into a record, and when all four values had been established, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or anyone else, say anything?

What stopped us from stand up and say what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously executed my professional demise. If I had doubted or challenged the procedures that the boss had introduced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become fitter, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you shouldn't be overweight, just as clear you ought to be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the entire referee corps needed a standardization. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the key objective was to lose weight and lower your body fat.

Our two annual courses thereafter maintained the same structure. Weight check, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got data about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

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