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I descended to the lower level, wiped the weighing machine I had shunned for a long time and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and untrained to being lean and fit. It had required effort, filled with persistence, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the start of a change that slowly introduced stress, tension and unease around the assessments that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about prioritising diet, presenting as a top-level referee, that the mass and body fat were right, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and ending up in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the head official brought in a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on body shape, weigh-ins and body fat, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might seem like a expected practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only examined basic things like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also more specific tests designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were identified as color deficient. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip said, but nobody was certain – because concerning the results of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled competence, meticulousness and a aim to enhance.

Concerning tests of weight and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed aversion, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the umpires were divided into three teams of about 15. When my team had walked into the big, chilly assembly area where we were to gather, the leadership instructed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our attire. The prior evening, we had obtained clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a long row, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, inspirations, mature individuals, caregivers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit nervously while we were summoned two by two. There the boss examined us from head to toe with an frigid gaze. Silent and observant. We mounted the balance one by one. I pulled in my stomach, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how Collina paused, looked at me and inspected my almost bare body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and obliged to be here and be inspected and assessed.

I stepped off the scale and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The equivalent coach approached with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The coach pressed, tugged, pressed, measured, rechecked, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and compressed my skin and fatty deposits. After each test site, he announced the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no clue what the figures stood for, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant entered the values into a document, and when all readings had been established, the record rapidly computed my complete adipose level. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

What stopped us from get to our feet and say what each person felt: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have concurrently sealed my professional demise. If I had doubted or challenged the procedures that the boss had introduced then I would not have received any games, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also aimed to become more athletic, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you ought not to be overweight, equally obvious you should be in shape – 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 strategy where the most important thing was to shed pounds and reduce your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got data about our physical profile – arrows indicating if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

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