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I went to the basement, cleaned the scales I had avoided for many years and looked at the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was overweight and untrained to being slender and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of determination, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that gradually meant pressure, tension and disquiet around the tests that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a elite official, that the body mass and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you faced being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a series of reforms. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Eyesight examinations might seem like a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also targeted assessments tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the results of the optical assessment, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It indicated competence, thoroughness and a aim to get better.

When it came to weighing assessments and body fat, however, I largely sensed revulsion, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the officials were split into three groups of about 15. When my team had walked into the large, cold meeting hall where we were to assemble, the leadership directed us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our attire. The evening before, we had obtained explicit directions 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 weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, parents, assertive characters with high principles … but no one said anything. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward two by two. There Collina scrutinized us from head to toe with an ice-cold stare. Quiet and observant. We mounted the weighing machine singly. I contracted my belly, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how the boss paused, observed me and surveyed my almost bare body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and forced to be here and be evaluated and assessed.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was in a daze. The identical trainer approached with a kind of pliers, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer compressed, drew, pressed, quantified, measured again, uttered indistinct words, squeezed once more and compressed my dermis and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he called out the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper recorded the figures into a file, and when all readings had been determined, the document quickly calculated my overall body fat. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why didn't I, or any other person, voice an opinion?

Why didn't we get to our feet and express what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently sealed my professional demise. If I had challenged or opposed the procedures that the boss had enforced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become fitter, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be heavy, just as clear you should be in shape – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the primary focus was to lose weight and reduce your adipose level.

Our two annual courses after that adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, rule tests, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a document, we all got information about our body metrics – pointers pointing if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five groups. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong