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I went to the lower level, dusted off the balance I had shunned for many years and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a official who was bulky and unfit to being light and fit. It had taken time, packed with persistence, hard calls and focus. But it was also the commencement of a change that progressively brought stress, pressure and unease around the examinations that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a top-level umpire, that the body mass and fat percentages were right, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and ending up in the cold.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure brought in a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on physique, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might sound like a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also specialized examinations designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers said, but nobody was certain – because concerning the outcomes of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It demonstrated competence, meticulousness and a aim to improve.

When it came to weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed revulsion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were separated into three groups of about 15. When my group had entered the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to assemble, the management urged us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our attire. The evening before, we had received specific orders not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the model.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, inspirations, mature individuals, family providers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were summoned two by two. There Collina observed us from completely with an frigid gaze. Mute and attentive. We stepped onto the weighing machine individually. I pulled in my stomach, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the coaches loudly announced: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how Collina paused, glanced my way and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and forced to be here and be examined and assessed.

I stepped off the scale and it felt like I was disoriented. The equivalent coach advanced with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the device was called, was cold and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach squeezed, tugged, forced, quantified, rechecked, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and compressed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he called out the metric reading he could measure.

I had no clue what the figures represented, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper entered the figures into a document, and when all measurements had been determined, the file swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why couldn't we rise and say what everyone thought: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or challenged the techniques that the boss had implemented then I would not have received any games, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become more athletic, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you must not be overweight, equally obvious you should be fit – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a standardization. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the primary focus was to lose weight and lower your adipose level.

Our two annual courses subsequently followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, running tests, rule tests, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got facts about our physical profile – indicators showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or incorrect path (up).

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