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I descended to the basement, cleaned the weighing machine I had evaded for many years and glanced at the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a referee who was overweight and unfit to being lean and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of patience, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a shift that progressively brought anxiety, tension and unease around the assessments that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a top-level umpire, that the body mass and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the cold.

When the officiating body was overhauled during the mid-2010 period, the head official enacted a set of modifications. During the first year, there was an extreme focus on body shape, body mass assessments and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might sound like a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only examined elementary factors like being able to read small text at a particular length, but also targeted assessments tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some officials were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the rumours claimed, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the outcomes of the vision test, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It indicated professionalism, thoroughness and a desire to get better.

Concerning tests of weight and body fat, however, I largely sensed aversion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the umpires were separated into three groups of about 15. When my unit had walked into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to gather, the management directed us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our attire. The prior evening, we had received clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the elite arbiters of European football, top sportsmen, inspirations, grown-ups, family providers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We hardly peered at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were called forward as duos. There the chief scrutinized us from top to bottom with an frigid gaze. Mute and watchful. We stepped onto the weighing machine individually. I contracted my stomach, stood erect and stopped inhaling as if it would change the outcome. One of the coaches clearly stated: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how Collina hesitated, looked at me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and compelled to remain here and be evaluated and judged.

I descended from the scale and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach approached with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was cool and I started a little every time it made contact.

The trainer compressed, tugged, pressed, gauged, rechecked, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and squeezed my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he announced the number of millimetres he could gauge.

I had no clue what the figures stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper inputted the values into a file, and when all measurements had been determined, the record swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My result was declared, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

What prevented me from, or anyone else, say anything?

Why couldn't we stand up and say what each person felt: that it was humiliating. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously signed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or resisted the techniques that Collina had enforced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also desired to become fitter, reduce my mass and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you must not be overweight, equally obvious you ought to be conditioned – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group required a professionalisation. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an plan where the most important thing was to lose weight and reduce your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter followed the same pattern. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a document, we all got data about our body metrics – indicators showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five groups. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong