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I went to the basement, cleaned the scales I had shunned for several years and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was bulky and unfit to being slender and well trained. It had taken time, packed with patience, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the start of a transformation that gradually meant anxiety, pressure and disquiet around the tests that the authorities had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a top-level referee, that the mass and adipose levels were right, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and landing in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was replaced during the mid-2010 period, Pierluigi Collina brought in a series of reforms. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on body shape, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might seem like a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the sessions they not only tested basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also specialized examinations tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some referees were identified as color deficient. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers suggested, but no one knew for sure – because concerning the findings of the vision test, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the eyesight exam was a comfort. It signalled expertise, meticulousness and a desire to get better.

When it came to body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed revulsion, anger and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the officials were divided into three units of about 15. When my unit had walked into the large, cold assembly area where we were to meet, the leadership urged us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our clothes. The evening before, we had been given explicit directions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty 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 look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, inspirations, adults, caregivers, confident individuals with high principles … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward two by two. There the boss observed us from top to bottom with an ice-cold stare. Silent and observant. We stepped onto the balance one by one. I sucked in my abdomen, stood erect and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how Collina hesitated, observed me and inspected my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and forced to remain here and be inspected and critiqued.

I descended from the scale and it seemed like I was disoriented. The same instructor advanced 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 caliper, as the device was called, was chilly and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The instructor compressed, drew, pressed, gauged, rechecked, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and pinched my skin and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he declared the metric reading he could measure.

I had no clue what the figures signified, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An helper inputted the numbers into a record, and when all four values had been established, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

Why didn't we stand up and say what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have at the same time executed my professional demise. If I had challenged or challenged the methods that the chief had introduced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become more athletic, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was clear you shouldn't be overweight, just as clear you must be in shape – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group required a professionalisation. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the primary focus was to lose weight and minimise your body fat.

Our biannual sessions subsequently followed the same pattern. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, running tests, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, collaborative exercises and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a file, we all got data about our physical profile – arrows pointing 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