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I ventured to the cellar, cleaned the weighing machine I had evaded for many years and observed 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 unfit to being light and fit. It had taken time, filled with patience, tough decisions and focus. But it was also the beginning of a shift that gradually meant pressure, pressure and disquiet around the examinations that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a premier official, that the weight and adipose levels were right, otherwise you risked being penalized, being allocated fewer games and landing in the cold.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Eyesight examinations might seem like a given practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also specialized examinations tailored to elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were found to be colour blind. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was forced to quit. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the findings of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a confidence boost. It indicated competence, attention to detail and a aim to get better.

When it came to weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was forced to endure the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the opening day, the umpires were separated into three units of about 15. When my team had entered the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to meet, the supervisors directed us to undress to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our clothes. The previous night, we had been given explicit directions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, role models, adults, caregivers, strong personalities with high principles … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were invited two by two. There the chief scrutinized us from completely with an chilling look. Mute and observant. We stepped on the scale one by one. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I sensed how the chief paused, observed me and surveyed my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an adult and forced to stand here and be inspected and assessed.

I stepped off the balance and it felt like I was in a daze. The same instructor came forward with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the device was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer compressed, tugged, pressed, measured, measured again, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and squeezed my skin and body fat. After each assessment point, he announced the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no idea what the figures stood for, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It required about a minute. An aide entered the values into a document, and when all measurements had been determined, the record rapidly computed my total fat percentage. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

Why couldn't we get to our feet and state what each person felt: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time executed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or opposed the methods that the chief had enforced then I would not have received any matches, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also desired to become more athletic, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you ought not to be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you ought to be in shape – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an agenda where the key objective was to shed pounds and reduce your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions thereafter adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, running tests, rule tests, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got information about our fitness statistics – indicators showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

Fat percentages were classified into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong