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I descended to the lower level, cleaned the weighing machine I had shunned for many years and observed the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being light and well trained. It had required effort, full of persistence, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the start of a transformation that slowly introduced pressure, pressure and discomfort around the assessments that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a top-level referee, that the mass and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you faced being penalized, receiving less assignments and ending up in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina brought in a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Eyesight examinations might seem like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments designed for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were identified as color deficient. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours claimed, but nobody was certain – because about the findings of the eyesight exam, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled competence, attention to detail and a aim to improve.

Concerning tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed aversion, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the initial session, the officials were separated into three units of about 15. When my unit had walked into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to assemble, the management directed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our attire. The previous night, we had received specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, exemplars, adults, parents, confident individuals with great integrity … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward in pairs. There Collina scrutinized us from top to bottom with an frigid look. Quiet and observant. We stepped onto the balance individually. I sucked in my abdomen, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would change the outcome. One of the coaches audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I sensed how the chief paused, glanced my way and scanned my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and compelled to be here and be evaluated and assessed.

I descended from the balance and it felt like I was disoriented. The identical trainer approached with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch 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 pressed against me.

The instructor squeezed, drew, applied pressure, quantified, rechecked, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and pinched my dermis and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he called out the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no clue what the figures signified, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It required about a minute. An helper entered the figures into a record, and when all four values had been established, the record rapidly computed my complete adipose level. My result was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

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

Certainly, I also wanted to become in better shape, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you ought not to be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you ought to be conditioned – and sure, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a professionalisation. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the primary focus was to lose weight and lower your fat percentage.

Our two annual courses thereafter maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, rule tests, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got data about our body metrics – arrows pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong