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I descended to the lower level, dusted off the scales I had shunned for many years and observed the display: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was bulky and unfit to being lean and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, full of persistence, hard calls and focus. But it was also the start of a change that slowly introduced stress, strain and discomfort around the assessments that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a elite official, that the weight and body fat were correct, otherwise you faced being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina introduced a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, body mass assessments and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Vision tests might sound like a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only evaluated basic things like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also targeted assessments tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were discovered as color deficient. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip said, but nobody was certain – because about the findings of the vision test, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

Concerning body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I primarily experienced aversion, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the fall of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the umpires were split into three groups of about 15. When my group had entered the big, chilly assembly area where we were to gather, the management urged us to undress to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our garments. The prior evening, we had been given specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, family providers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were invited in pairs. There the boss observed us from top to bottom with an chilling look. Mute and attentive. We stepped on the balance one by one. I pulled in my stomach, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the chief stopped, looked at me and scanned my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and compelled to be here and be inspected and assessed.

I descended from the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer advanced with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The coach pressed, tugged, forced, measured, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, reapplied force and pinched my skin and body fat. After each measurement area, he called out the measurement in mm he could gauge.

I had no clue what the numbers stood for, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An aide entered the values into a document, and when all measurements had been established, the file quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why didn't we stand up and express what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously signed my professional demise. If I had doubted or opposed the methods that Collina had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also aimed to become fitter, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you should be in shape – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps needed a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the key objective was to reduce mass and minimise your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got data about our fitness statistics – indicators indicating if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong