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I ventured to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had avoided for a long time and looked at the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a referee who was overweight and untrained to being lean and conditioned. It had required effort, full of persistence, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a transformation that slowly introduced stress, pressure and disquiet around the assessments that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a premier umpire, that the body mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you risked being penalized, receiving less assignments and finding yourself in the cold.

When the officiating body was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the head official enacted a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, body mass assessments and body fat, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might appear as a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the training programs they not only tested fundamental aspects like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another proved to be blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip said, but no one knew for sure – because about the findings of the optical assessment, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a comfort. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a goal to enhance.

Regarding tests of weight and body fat, however, I largely sensed revulsion, anger and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the officials were split into three groups of about 15. When my team had entered the large, cold conference room where we were to gather, the management instructed us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We carefully shed our clothes. The previous night, we had received explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, role models, grown-ups, family providers, confident individuals with high principles … but nobody spoke. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were summoned as duos. There Collina scrutinized us from head to toe with an chilling gaze. Silent and attentive. We mounted the weighing machine one by one. I sucked in my belly, stood erect and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the boss stopped, observed me and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and forced to be here and be examined and critiqued.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it seemed like I was disoriented. The equivalent coach came forward with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on assorted regions of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor pressed, drew, applied pressure, measured, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and squeezed my dermis and fatty deposits. After each test site, he announced the measurement in mm he could gauge.

I had no idea what the values represented, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It lasted approximately a minute. An helper inputted the figures into a file, and when all measurements had been determined, the document swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why didn't I, or any other person, say anything?

What stopped us from stand up and express what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time sealed my professional demise. If I had doubted or challenged the procedures that Collina had implemented then I wouldn't have got any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also wanted to become fitter, be lighter and attain my target, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you ought not to be above the ideal weight, just as clear you must be fit – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and minimise your adipose level.

Our biannual sessions subsequently followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, endurance assessments, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got data about our fitness statistics – pointers showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong