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I descended to the basement, wiped the scales I had evaded for several years and observed the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being slender and well trained. It had required effort, packed with patience, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the start of a transformation that progressively brought anxiety, strain and unease around the examinations that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a top-level official, that the weight and body fat were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, getting fewer matches and landing in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the leading figure enacted a set of modifications. During the first year, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, body mass assessments and body fat, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might appear as a given practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only evaluated basic things like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also more specific tests adapted for professional football referees.

Some officials were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers suggested, but no one knew for sure – because about the results of the vision test, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It signalled competence, thoroughness and a aim to improve.

Concerning weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I mostly felt disgust, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were separated into three groups of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to meet, the supervisors 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 slowly took off our clothes. The evening before, we had received clear instructions not to consume food or beverages 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 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 underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, inspirations, grown-ups, family providers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward as duos. There the chief examined us from top to bottom with an chilling gaze. Mute and attentive. We mounted the weighing machine singly. I contracted my belly, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers clearly stated: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how the chief paused, glanced my way and surveyed my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be inspected and judged.

I alighted from the balance and it felt like I was in a daze. The same instructor approached with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it made contact.

The coach squeezed, pulled, forced, quantified, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and squeezed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he called out the metric reading he could measure.

I had no clue what the numbers signified, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It lasted approximately a minute. An aide recorded the numbers into a record, and when all readings had been calculated, the file rapidly computed my complete adipose level. My result was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we rise and say what each person felt: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time executed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or resisted the methods that Collina had introduced then I wouldn't have got any fixtures, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also wanted to become fitter, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was clear you shouldn't be overweight, just as clear you must be in shape – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an plan where the most important thing was to shed pounds and reduce your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions subsequently adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got information about our body metrics – arrows indicating if we were going in the correct path (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong