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I ventured to the basement, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for many years and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and untrained to being lean and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of persistence, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the start of a shift that progressively brought stress, tension and discomfort around the assessments that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a top-level umpire, that the weight and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, the head official brought in a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physique, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might sound like a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also targeted assessments adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were identified as colour blind. Another proved to be blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the rumours claimed, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the outcomes of the vision test, nothing was revealed in big gatherings. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It indicated competence, thoroughness and a aim to get better.

Concerning tests of weight and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed aversion, irritation and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the officials were divided into three teams of about 15. When my group had entered the large, cold conference room where we were to gather, the supervisors urged us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We glanced around, but everyone remained silent or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our clothes. The evening before, we had received clear instructions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a official should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, inspirations, adults, parents, strong personalities with great integrity … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were invited two by two. There Collina observed us from head to toe with an ice-cold gaze. Silent and observant. We stepped on the weighing machine individually. I contracted my belly, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I sensed how the chief stopped, looked at me and surveyed my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and forced to be here and be examined and judged.

I descended from the scale and it appeared as if I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach approached with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The pinching instrument, as the tool was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The trainer pressed, pulled, forced, quantified, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and squeezed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he called out the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers signified, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant recorded the numbers into a file, and when all readings had been established, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why couldn't we stand up and say what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently executed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or opposed the procedures that Collina had enforced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become in better shape, be lighter and attain my target, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you must not be overweight, similarly apparent you must be fit – and sure, maybe the entire referee corps needed a professionalisation. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the primary focus was to reduce mass and lower your fat percentage.

Our two annual courses subsequently adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, running tests, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got facts about our physical profile – arrows indicating if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five tiers. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong