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I descended to the lower level, dusted off the balance I had evaded for many years and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and unfit to being slender and conditioned. It had required effort, filled with patience, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that gradually meant pressure, strain and unease around the assessments that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a top-level referee, that the body mass and body fat were right, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, getting fewer matches and ending up in the cold.

When the officiating body was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina enacted a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physique, weigh-ins and body fat, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might sound like a standard practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only examined basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also specialized examinations tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers suggested, but nobody was certain – because regarding the outcomes of the vision test, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It indicated professionalism, meticulousness and a goal to improve.

Regarding weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced aversion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my group had stepped into the big, chilly assembly area where we were to meet, the supervisors instructed us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We carefully shed our attire. The prior evening, we had received specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to appear as a umpire should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the elite arbiters of European football, professional competitors, exemplars, grown-ups, parents, assertive characters with great integrity … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our eyes darted a bit nervously while we were summoned two by two. There the boss scrutinized us from completely with an ice-cold stare. Quiet and observant. We stepped on the balance individually. I sucked in my abdomen, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how Collina paused, glanced my way and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and forced to be here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer came forward with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The trainer compressed, tugged, forced, quantified, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and squeezed my dermis and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he declared the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no understanding what the values signified, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It required about a minute. An assistant recorded the figures into a document, and when all four values had been calculated, the file rapidly computed my total fat percentage. My value was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why didn't I, or any other person, say anything?

Why couldn't we get to our feet and express what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously executed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or challenged the methods that the chief had introduced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become fitter, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you shouldn't be heavy, just as clear you should be in shape – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a standardization. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the key objective was to shed pounds and lower your body fat.

Our biannual sessions subsequently adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got data about our body metrics – indicators pointing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five groups. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong