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I descended to the basement, dusted off the scales I had evaded for a long time and observed the display: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a official who was overweight and unfit to being light and well trained. It had taken time, filled with determination, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the start of a transformation that progressively brought anxiety, tension and unease around the examinations that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a premier referee, that the mass and body fat were appropriate, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and ending up in the cold.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the head official introduced a number of changes. During the first year, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Eyesight examinations might sound like a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only examined elementary factors like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also more specific tests adapted for professional football referees.

Some umpires were found to be color deficient. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the results of the optical assessment, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It demonstrated competence, thoroughness and a goal to get better.

When it came to body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, anger and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the officials were divided into three teams of about 15. When my group had walked into the big, chilly conference room where we were to gather, the leadership directed us to strip down to our underwear. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our clothes. The prior evening, we had received specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, parents, strong personalities with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were invited in pairs. There Collina scrutinized us from top to bottom with an frigid stare. Mute and attentive. We stepped onto the scale individually. I sucked in my abdomen, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how the chief hesitated, looked at me and surveyed my almost bare body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and obliged to be here and be inspected and critiqued.

I alighted from the scale and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The equivalent coach approached with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer compressed, drew, applied pressure, gauged, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and squeezed my epidermis and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he called out the metric reading he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers signified, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant recorded the numbers into a document, and when all four values had been determined, the document rapidly computed my overall body fat. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we stand up and state what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently signed my professional demise. If I had questioned or opposed the techniques that Collina had implemented then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also desired to become more athletic, weigh less and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was clear you must not be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you should be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an plan where the primary focus was to lose weight and lower your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – pointers pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or wrong direction (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong