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I went to the lower level, dusted off the scales I had shunned for several years and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was bulky and untrained to being lean and fit. It had demanded dedication, filled with persistence, hard calls and focus. But it was also the commencement of a change that slowly introduced stress, pressure and discomfort around the tests that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about prioritising diet, appearing as a elite referee, that the body mass and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you faced being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the cold.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might appear as a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the training programs they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, but also specialized examinations tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some officials were found to be color deficient. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but everyone was unsure – because about the results of the eyesight exam, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the eyesight exam was a confidence boost. It indicated competence, thoroughness and a aim to improve.

Regarding tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed revulsion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the officials were divided into three units of about 15. When my team had stepped into the large, cold conference room where we were to gather, the management directed us to strip down to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our clothes. The previous night, we had obtained specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid 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 look like a umpire should according to the model.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were the elite arbiters of European football, top sportsmen, role models, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were invited in pairs. There Collina examined us from top to bottom with an frigid stare. Silent and watchful. We stepped on the scale one by one. I sucked in my stomach, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how the chief hesitated, looked at me and inspected my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and compelled to be here and be inspected and judged.

I stepped off the scale and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The same instructor advanced with a sort of clamp, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was chilly and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The instructor pressed, drew, pressed, measured, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and compressed my skin and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he declared the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant entered the figures into a record, and when all four values had been calculated, the document swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My value 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 rise and express what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously executed my professional demise. If I had doubted or resisted the methods that the boss had implemented then I would not have received any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also desired to become in better shape, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you shouldn't be overweight, similarly apparent you should be in shape – and sure, maybe the entire referee corps required a standardization. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and minimise your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got data about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five categories. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong