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I descended to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for several years and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was bulky and unfit to being lean and conditioned. It had required effort, packed with persistence, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the start of a transformation that progressively brought anxiety, tension and unease around the tests that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a top-level referee, that the weight and fat percentages were right, otherwise you faced being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a set of modifications. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, weigh-ins and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Eyesight examinations might seem like a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also specialized examinations designed for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were discovered as color deficient. Another proved to be blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the whispers said, but nobody was certain – because concerning the findings of the vision test, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It signalled competence, thoroughness and a goal to enhance.

When it came to weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced disgust, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the opening day, the officials were separated into three groups of about 15. When my group had entered the big, chilly conference room where we were to assemble, the management instructed us to undress to our underwear. We glanced around, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our attire. The previous night, we had obtained 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 official should according to the standard.

There we stood in a long row, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, inspirations, adults, family providers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were called forward in pairs. There the boss observed us from completely with an ice-cold stare. Mute and observant. We mounted the balance individually. I contracted my abdomen, stood erect and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the chief stopped, glanced my way and scanned my almost bare body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and obliged to remain here and be inspected and assessed.

I descended from the scale and it seemed like I was in a daze. The same instructor approached with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he commenced pressing me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was cool and I started a little every time it made contact.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, pressed, measured, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, reapplied force and compressed my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he declared the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no idea what the figures stood for, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An aide recorded the figures into a record, and when all readings had been determined, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why did I not, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

Why didn't we stand up and express what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time signed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or opposed the procedures that the boss had enforced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become more athletic, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you must be in shape – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the most important thing was to reduce mass and lower your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got facts about our physical profile – pointers pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

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