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I ventured to the cellar, wiped the balance I had evaded for several years and observed the display: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being lean and fit. It had demanded dedication, packed with persistence, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the beginning of a shift that progressively brought pressure, tension and discomfort around the examinations that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a elite umpire, that the mass and body fat were right, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the cold.

When the officiating body was replaced during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina brought in a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physique, body mass assessments and body fat, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might appear as a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only examined elementary factors like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also more specific tests tailored to professional football referees.

Some umpires were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers said, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the outcomes of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It demonstrated expertise, attention to detail and a aim to get better.

When it came to weighing assessments and body fat, however, I primarily experienced disgust, anger and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the referees were split into three groups of about 15. When my unit had walked into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to assemble, the management instructed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our garments. The prior evening, we had been given specific orders not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the standard.

There we were positioned in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, parents, strong personalities with great integrity … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were called forward two by two. There Collina scrutinized us from head to toe with an chilling gaze. Quiet and attentive. We mounted the balance individually. I contracted my abdomen, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the chief hesitated, glanced my way and surveyed 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 judged.

I descended from the weighing machine and it felt like I was in a daze. The equivalent coach came forward 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 measuring tool, as the device was called, was chilly and I jumped a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor compressed, tugged, applied pressure, quantified, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and compressed my dermis and fatty deposits. After each assessment point, he declared the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no idea what the figures stood for, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant inputted the numbers into a record, and when all readings had been determined, the record swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why did I not, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from stand up and express what each person felt: that it was degrading. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously signed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or challenged the techniques that the boss had implemented then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become in better shape, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you must not be heavy, equally obvious you must be conditioned – and sure, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the key objective was to lose weight and reduce your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions thereafter maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – pointers showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or incorrect path (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five groups. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong