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I ventured to the cellar, wiped the weighing machine I had evaded for several years and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was heavy and unfit to being lean and well trained. It had taken time, filled with determination, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that slowly introduced stress, strain and disquiet around the assessments that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a top-level official, that the body mass and adipose levels were right, otherwise you risked being penalized, being allocated fewer games and landing in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was restructured during the summer of 2010, the head official brought in a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physique, weigh-ins and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might appear as a given practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a particular length, but also more specific tests adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were identified as colour blind. Another proved to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers said, but nobody was certain – because about the findings of the optical assessment, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It indicated expertise, thoroughness and a goal to enhance.

When it came to tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt aversion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was obliged to experience the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the referees were divided into three units of about 15. When my unit had walked into the spacious, cool conference room where we were to assemble, the management directed us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our clothes. The previous night, we had received explicit directions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the standard.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, caregivers, strong personalities with high principles … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were invited two by two. There Collina examined us from top to bottom with an chilling stare. Mute and observant. We mounted the weighing machine individually. I contracted my stomach, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers clearly stated: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how Collina paused, glanced my way and inspected my almost bare body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an adult and compelled to be here and be inspected and assessed.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The same instructor approached with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The measuring tool, as the device was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer pressed, pulled, pressed, quantified, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and pinched my skin and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he announced the metric reading he could assess.

I had no idea what the figures signified, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An helper recorded the numbers into a file, and when all measurements had been calculated, the file quickly calculated my overall body fat. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

What stopped us from rise and state what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously executed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or challenged the techniques that the boss had introduced then I wouldn't have got any fixtures, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also desired to become fitter, weigh less and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, just as clear you should be fit – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a standardization. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an plan where the key objective was to lose weight and reduce your fat percentage.

Our two annual courses after that maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, running tests, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

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