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I went to the basement, dusted off 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 official who was overweight and unfit to being lean and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, filled with persistence, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that progressively brought pressure, strain and disquiet around the assessments that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent official, it was also about prioritising diet, presenting as a premier referee, that the mass and body fat were right, otherwise you faced being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was restructured during the mid-2010 period, the head official brought in a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on physique, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might appear as a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also specialized examinations adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but nobody was certain – because about the results of the vision test, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a confidence boost. It demonstrated competence, thoroughness and a aim to enhance.

Regarding weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed disgust, anger and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the umpires were divided into three teams of about 15. When my group had entered the large, cold meeting hall where we were to gather, the supervisors instructed us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We carefully shed our clothes. The prior evening, we had been given explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the standard.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, exemplars, grown-ups, parents, assertive characters with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were summoned two by two. There Collina examined us from head to toe with an chilling gaze. Quiet and attentive. We stepped onto the balance individually. I sucked in my abdomen, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how Collina hesitated, observed me and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and obliged to be here and be examined and assessed.

I stepped off the balance and it felt like I was in a daze. The same instructor came forward with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The instructor compressed, pulled, pressed, quantified, rechecked, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and pinched my epidermis and fatty deposits. After each test site, he declared the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no understanding what the figures stood for, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant entered the numbers into a file, and when all four values had been established, the document swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or any other person, say anything?

What stopped us from get to our feet and express what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time executed my professional demise. If I had doubted or opposed the techniques that Collina had introduced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also desired to become in better shape, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be heavy, just as clear you must be fit – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the most important thing was to shed pounds and reduce your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a file, we all got data about our body metrics – arrows pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were categorised into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong