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I descended to the lower level, wiped the balance I had evaded for several years and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a umpire who was heavy and unfit to being light and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, full of persistence, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the beginning of a transformation that progressively brought anxiety, pressure and disquiet around the tests that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a elite umpire, that the weight and body fat were appropriate, otherwise you risked being penalized, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was restructured during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina brought in a series of reforms. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on body shape, weigh-ins and adipose tissue, and compulsory eyesight exams. Vision tests might appear as a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only evaluated basic things like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also more specific tests tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some referees were found to be colour blind. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the whispers said, but nobody was certain – because about the outcomes of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It indicated professionalism, meticulousness and a goal to enhance.

Concerning weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I mostly felt aversion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the assessments that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the referees were split into three units of about 15. When my team had walked into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to assemble, the leadership directed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our clothes. The evening before, we had obtained explicit directions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the standard.

There we stood in a long row, in just our underwear. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, exemplars, grown-ups, parents, confident individuals with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were summoned two by two. There the boss scrutinized us from completely with an frigid look. Silent and attentive. We stepped on the weighing machine one by one. I contracted my stomach, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I sensed how Collina hesitated, glanced my way and inspected my almost bare body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an adult and compelled to be here and be examined and assessed.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer advanced with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cool and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, applied pressure, quantified, measured again, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and squeezed my skin and adipose tissue. After each test site, he called out the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no understanding what the numbers represented, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An aide inputted the values into a document, and when all readings had been calculated, the file quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or any other person, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we rise and express what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had challenged or resisted the procedures that the boss had enforced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become in better shape, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you ought not to be heavy, similarly apparent you must be fit – and sure, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the most important thing was to reduce mass and minimise your fat percentage.

Our two annual courses after that maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, running tests, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – pointers pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Fat percentages were classified into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong