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I went to the basement, wiped the weighing machine I had shunned for many years and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and untrained to being slender and conditioned. It had required effort, packed with determination, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the start of a change that progressively brought anxiety, tension and discomfort around the tests that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a elite official, that the mass and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and ending up in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was replaced during the mid-2010 period, Pierluigi Collina enacted a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on body shape, measurements of weight and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might appear as a given practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only tested elementary factors like being able to read small text at a particular length, but also more specific tests adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some referees were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another proved to be partially sighted and was forced to quit. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but nobody was certain – because concerning the results of the optical assessment, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It demonstrated expertise, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

Concerning tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed revulsion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my team had stepped into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to gather, the supervisors directed us to undress to our underwear. We glanced around, but everyone remained silent or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our attire. The previous night, we had received explicit directions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the model.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, exemplars, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with high principles … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward in pairs. There Collina observed us from top to bottom with an frigid stare. Mute and observant. We mounted the weighing machine individually. I sucked in my abdomen, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the boss hesitated, glanced my way and inspected my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and forced to remain 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 came forward with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cool and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The coach compressed, drew, forced, quantified, reassessed, spoke unclearly, squeezed once more and pinched my epidermis and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he announced the metric reading he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers represented, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It required about a minute. An aide entered the numbers into a file, and when all measurements had been established, the record rapidly computed my complete adipose level. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why couldn't we stand up and state what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously signed my professional demise. If I had challenged or challenged the procedures that Collina had enforced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become in better shape, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you must not be overweight, equally obvious you ought to be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the key objective was to reduce mass and reduce your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings subsequently maintained the same structure. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, reviews of interpretations, collaborative exercises and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a file, we all got facts about our physical profile – indicators showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

Adipose measurements were classified into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong