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I ventured to the lower level, wiped the scales I had shunned for many years and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was overweight and unfit to being slender and well trained. It had required effort, full of patience, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that gradually meant pressure, pressure and discomfort around the tests that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a premier referee, that the mass and body fat were right, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, receiving less assignments and ending up in the cold.

When the officiating body was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the head official brought in a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, weigh-ins and body fat, and required optical assessments. Eyesight examinations might sound like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the training programs they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also specialized examinations tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some referees were discovered as colour blind. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the outcomes of the vision test, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled competence, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

Concerning tests of weight and body fat, however, I primarily experienced disgust, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the officials were split into three units of about 15. When my team had entered the big, chilly conference room where we were to gather, the management urged us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We glanced around, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our attire. The previous night, we had obtained clear instructions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to appear as a official should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were the elite arbiters of European football, professional competitors, exemplars, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were invited in pairs. There the chief observed us from top to bottom with an chilling stare. Quiet and attentive. We stepped on the weighing machine individually. I sucked in my stomach, straightened my back and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how the chief stopped, looked at me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and obliged to be here and be inspected and critiqued.

I stepped off the scale and it seemed like I was disoriented. The equivalent coach came forward with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, forced, quantified, rechecked, uttered indistinct words, squeezed once more and compressed my skin and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he declared the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no idea what the values signified, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant inputted the numbers into a document, and when all readings had been calculated, the document quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My result was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or anyone else, say anything?

What stopped us from get to our feet and say what each person felt: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had challenged or resisted the techniques that the boss had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also desired to become in better shape, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you must not be overweight, just as clear you should be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps needed a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to get there through a humiliating weigh-in and an plan where the most important thing was to lose weight and minimise your fat percentage.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, running tests, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got data about our physical profile – pointers showing if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five tiers. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong