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I went to the basement, cleaned the scales I had avoided for many years and observed the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was heavy and unfit to being light and fit. It had demanded dedication, filled with persistence, hard calls and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that slowly introduced stress, strain and discomfort around the tests that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a top-level official, that the weight and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you faced being disciplined, getting fewer matches and landing in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was restructured during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure enacted a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, weigh-ins and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might seem like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only evaluated basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also targeted assessments adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but no one knew for sure – because about the outcomes of the vision test, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It indicated expertise, meticulousness and a goal to improve.

Concerning body mass examinations and body fat, however, I mostly felt revulsion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the fall of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the referees were split into three teams of about 15. When my team had walked into the big, chilly conference room where we were to gather, the management urged us to undress to our underwear. We glanced around, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our attire. The evening before, we had obtained clear instructions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the standard.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, inspirations, adults, caregivers, confident individuals with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit anxiously while we were called forward in pairs. There the chief examined us from top to bottom with an ice-cold gaze. Quiet and watchful. We stepped on the balance individually. I contracted my stomach, stood erect and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers clearly stated: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I sensed how Collina hesitated, looked at me and scanned my almost bare body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and obliged to stand here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I alighted from the scale and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The same instructor approached with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The instructor pressed, drew, applied pressure, measured, measured again, spoke unclearly, pressed again and pinched my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he called out the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no clue what the numbers signified, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper inputted the values into a record, and when all readings had been established, the document rapidly computed my complete adipose level. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why did I not, or any other person, speak up?

Why didn't we stand up and say what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time signed my professional demise. If I had questioned or opposed the procedures that the boss had introduced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become fitter, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you must not be above the ideal weight, just as clear you ought to be conditioned – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and lower your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, running tests, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a file, we all got information about our body metrics – pointers pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

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