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I ventured to the lower level, dusted off the scales I had shunned for many years and looked at the display: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a referee who was bulky and out of shape to being lean and fit. It had taken time, packed with determination, hard calls and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that progressively brought pressure, tension and discomfort around the examinations that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a premier umpire, that the weight and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, getting fewer matches and ending up in the wilderness.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina introduced a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physique, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might sound like a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also targeted assessments designed for professional football referees.

Some officials were identified as colour blind. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours said, but everyone was unsure – because regarding the results of the vision test, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a confidence boost. It indicated competence, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

Regarding body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I mostly felt revulsion, anger and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the referees were divided into three teams of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to meet, the supervisors urged us to undress to our underclothes. We glanced around, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our clothes. The previous night, we had obtained clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the elite arbiters of European football, top sportsmen, role models, adults, caregivers, assertive characters with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were called forward two by two. There Collina scrutinized us from top to bottom with an ice-cold stare. Quiet and watchful. We stepped on the balance singly. I pulled in my stomach, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the coaches loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how the boss hesitated, looked at me and scanned my nearly naked body. I thought to myself that this is undignified. I'm an adult and compelled to be here and be evaluated and judged.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it felt like I was disoriented. The same instructor came forward with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on assorted regions of the body. The measuring tool, as the device was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, forced, gauged, measured again, uttered indistinct words, squeezed once more and pinched my dermis and adipose tissue. After each test site, he announced the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no idea what the figures represented, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An aide entered the figures into a record, and when all readings had been established, the record rapidly computed my overall body fat. My result was declared, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

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

Why didn't we rise and say what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously signed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or challenged the techniques that the chief had implemented then I would not have received any games, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also desired to become fitter, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you shouldn't be overweight, similarly apparent you ought to be conditioned – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials required a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an plan where the primary focus was to shed pounds and minimise your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter followed the same pattern. Weight check, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – arrows pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong