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I went to the lower level, wiped the balance I had evaded for many years and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was overweight and unfit to being lean and fit. It had demanded dedication, filled with patience, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a transformation that progressively brought anxiety, strain and discomfort around the tests that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a elite umpire, that the weight and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you faced being disciplined, receiving less assignments and landing in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, the head official brought in a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might appear as a expected practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a particular length, but also more specific tests adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours said, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the findings of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It indicated expertise, thoroughness and a desire to enhance.

When it came to weighing assessments and body fat, however, I largely sensed aversion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the umpires were split into three groups of about 15. When my group had walked into the large, cold assembly area where we were to gather, the management urged us to undress to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our attire. The previous night, we had obtained clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, inspirations, grown-ups, family providers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were summoned in pairs. There the boss observed us from completely with an chilling look. Quiet and observant. We stepped onto the weighing machine singly. I contracted my stomach, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how Collina stopped, observed me and scanned my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and obliged to be here and be examined and critiqued.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it seemed like I was disoriented. The identical trainer approached with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The coach pressed, drew, forced, measured, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and squeezed my epidermis and fatty deposits. After each assessment point, he declared the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures represented, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant inputted the values into a file, and when all four values had been determined, the document rapidly computed my total fat percentage. My result was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or any other person, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we stand up and say what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently executed my end of my officiating path. If I had challenged or opposed the procedures that Collina had introduced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become in better shape, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you must not be overweight, just as clear you ought to be in shape – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professionalisation. But it was wrong to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the most important thing was to reduce mass and minimise your fat percentage.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a document, we all got data about our body metrics – pointers pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five categories. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong