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I ventured to the basement, wiped the weighing machine I had shunned for a long time and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a umpire who was bulky and out of shape to being light and fit. It had demanded dedication, filled with persistence, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the start of a change that gradually meant pressure, pressure and unease around the examinations that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a premier umpire, that the mass and adipose levels were right, otherwise you risked being disciplined, getting fewer matches and ending up in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was restructured during the summer of 2010, the leading figure introduced a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on physique, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and compulsory eyesight exams. Vision tests might appear as a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only evaluated basic things like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, but also more specific tests tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were identified as colour blind. Another proved to be blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but nobody was certain – because regarding the results of the vision test, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It indicated expertise, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

Regarding tests of weight and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed revulsion, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were divided into three groups of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to assemble, the leadership urged us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but everyone remained silent or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our garments. The evening before, we had been given clear instructions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to appear as a umpire should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, inspirations, mature individuals, caregivers, confident individuals with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward as duos. There Collina examined us from completely with an chilling stare. Quiet and watchful. We stepped on the balance singly. I pulled in my stomach, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how the boss hesitated, observed me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and forced to remain here and be evaluated and judged.

I descended from the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The same instructor came forward with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the tool was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach squeezed, pulled, applied pressure, quantified, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and compressed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he announced the metric reading he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers represented, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant inputted the numbers into a document, and when all measurements had been established, the document swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or any other person, speak up?

Why couldn't we rise and express what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or challenged the techniques that the chief had introduced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also wanted to become more athletic, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you must not be heavy, equally obvious you must be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps required a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the key objective was to lose weight and lower your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, fitness exams, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got information about our physical profile – arrows showing if we were going in the correct path (down) or improper course (up).

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