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I descended to the basement, wiped the weighing machine I had avoided for a long time and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a referee who was heavy and untrained to being light and fit. It had taken time, packed with patience, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a change that slowly introduced stress, strain and discomfort around the tests that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a premier umpire, that the weight and adipose levels were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, being allocated fewer games and ending up in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was replaced during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physique, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might appear as a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only evaluated basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also specialized examinations designed for elite soccer officials.

Some referees were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but nobody was certain – because regarding the findings of the vision test, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a confidence boost. It demonstrated professionalism, attention to detail and a aim to enhance.

Concerning weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The opening instance I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the opening day, the referees were separated into three units of about 15. When my team had walked into the big, chilly conference room where we were to gather, the supervisors directed us to undress to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our garments. The previous night, we had obtained clear instructions 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 low a fat percentage as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the model.

There we stood in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, role models, adults, parents, assertive characters with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were called forward in pairs. There Collina observed us from completely with an ice-cold look. Mute and observant. We stepped onto the weighing machine individually. I contracted my belly, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the boss hesitated, looked at me and surveyed my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and forced to stand here and be examined and assessed.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it felt like I was in a daze. The equivalent coach came forward with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer pressed, pulled, applied pressure, measured, rechecked, spoke unclearly, pressed again and squeezed my epidermis and body fat. After each measurement area, he declared the measurement in mm he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An assistant inputted the values into a record, and when all four values had been determined, the file quickly calculated my overall body fat. My reading was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

What prevented me from, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from stand up and state what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time executed my professional demise. If I had questioned or opposed the procedures that the chief had implemented then I would not have received any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become more athletic, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was evident you must not be heavy, similarly apparent you should be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a standardization. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the most important thing was to reduce mass and lower your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got facts about our body metrics – indicators indicating if we were going in the right direction (down) or incorrect path (up).

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