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I descended to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for a long time and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a referee who was heavy and out of shape to being slender and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of persistence, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the start of a shift that progressively brought pressure, strain and disquiet around the examinations that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a premier official, that the weight and adipose levels were appropriate, otherwise you faced being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and ending up in the cold.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the mid-2010 period, the head official enacted a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might sound like a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the training programs they not only evaluated basic things like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, but also specialized examinations designed for professional football referees.

Some umpires were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip said, but no one knew for sure – because about the findings of the eyesight exam, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It signalled expertise, meticulousness and a desire to improve.

Concerning tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt aversion, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the umpires were split into three teams of about 15. When my group had stepped into the large, cold assembly area where we were to gather, the management urged us to undress to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our garments. The prior evening, we had been given explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the standard.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, role models, adults, family providers, confident individuals with high principles … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward in pairs. There the boss observed us from top to bottom with an chilling gaze. Mute and observant. We stepped onto the weighing machine one by one. I pulled in my abdomen, stood erect and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how Collina paused, glanced my way and scanned my nearly naked body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an adult and forced to stand here and be inspected and assessed.

I descended from the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The equivalent coach advanced with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The coach pressed, drew, forced, quantified, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and pinched my dermis and fatty deposits. After each test site, he called out the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no understanding what the values represented, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant recorded the figures into a record, and when all readings had been calculated, the file quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

What prevented me from, or somebody else, speak up?

Why couldn't we rise and express what each person felt: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time signed my end of my officiating path. If I had challenged or challenged the procedures that the chief had enforced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become in better shape, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you shouldn't be heavy, equally obvious you must be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps needed a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the key objective was to lose weight and minimise your fat percentage.

Our two annual courses after that followed the same pattern. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, rule tests, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got information about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

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