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I ventured to the cellar, wiped the balance I had evaded for a long time and observed the readout: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was bulky and unfit to being lean and well trained. It had taken time, filled with determination, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the beginning of a transformation that gradually meant stress, strain and discomfort around the assessments that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a elite referee, that the weight and body fat were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina brought in a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, measurements of weight and body fat, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might seem like a expected practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only tested elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also more specific tests tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were identified as colour blind. Another proved to be partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip said, but everyone was unsure – because regarding the outcomes of the vision test, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It demonstrated competence, meticulousness and a aim to improve.

Concerning tests of weight and body fat, however, I mostly felt disgust, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were split into three units of about 15. When my group had stepped into the big, chilly assembly area where we were to assemble, the management instructed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our clothes. The evening before, we had obtained clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the standard.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, top sportsmen, inspirations, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit anxiously while we were called forward as duos. There the boss examined us from top to bottom with an ice-cold look. Quiet and observant. We stepped onto the scale individually. I sucked in my belly, stood erect and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how the boss hesitated, glanced my way and surveyed my nearly naked body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The same instructor advanced with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The measuring tool, as the device was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer compressed, pulled, applied pressure, quantified, measured again, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and squeezed my dermis and body fat. After each test site, he called out the metric reading he could assess.

I had no idea what the values stood for, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It required about a minute. An helper inputted the numbers into a document, and when all readings had been calculated, the document rapidly computed my total fat percentage. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or somebody else, say anything?

Why didn't we rise and say what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had voiced my concerns I would have at the same time signed my end of my officiating path. If I had questioned or resisted the procedures that Collina had implemented then I would have been denied any games, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become more athletic, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you ought not to be overweight, similarly apparent you ought to be fit – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to get there through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the key objective was to shed pounds and lower your adipose level.

Our two annual courses after that adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, running tests, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end everything would be summarised. 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 tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong