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I descended to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had avoided for several years and observed the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a umpire who was overweight and unfit to being lean and fit. It had required effort, full of persistence, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that gradually meant pressure, pressure and unease around the assessments that the top management had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a premier referee, that the weight and adipose levels were appropriate, otherwise you risked being disciplined, getting fewer matches and landing in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was restructured during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure brought in a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physique, body mass assessments and body fat, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might sound like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the sessions they not only examined basic things like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also specialized examinations adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but nobody was certain – because about the outcomes of the eyesight exam, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It signalled expertise, attention to detail and a desire to enhance.

When it came to body mass examinations and body fat, however, I primarily experienced aversion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were divided into three units of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to gather, the leadership urged us to undress to our underwear. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our attire. The previous night, we had been given specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a official should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, inspirations, grown-ups, parents, confident individuals with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were invited as duos. There Collina observed us from top to bottom with an frigid look. Silent and watchful. We stepped on the balance one by one. I sucked in my stomach, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how Collina hesitated, glanced my way and scanned my nearly naked body. I mused that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be examined and judged.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The same instructor advanced with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer compressed, drew, pressed, quantified, reassessed, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and squeezed my epidermis and body fat. After each assessment point, he announced the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no idea what the values signified, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An assistant entered the figures into a record, and when all four values had been calculated, the document swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

Why didn't we stand up and express what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had questioned or opposed the methods that the chief had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also desired to become more athletic, be lighter and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be above the ideal weight, just as clear you ought to be in shape – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the primary focus was to lose weight and lower your body fat.

Our biannual sessions subsequently adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, rule tests, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got data about our fitness statistics – arrows pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Body fat levels were categorised into five tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong