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I ventured to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for a long time and glanced 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 out of shape to being slender and fit. It had taken time, filled with patience, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that progressively brought anxiety, strain and discomfort around the tests that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a top-level umpire, that the weight and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you faced being penalized, receiving less assignments and ending up in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, measurements of weight and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might appear as a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the courses they not only tested fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a particular length, but also targeted assessments tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but everyone was unsure – because regarding the results of the vision test, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a confidence boost. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a desire to improve.

Regarding tests of weight and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed disgust, anger and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the officials were separated into three teams of about 15. When my team had entered the large, cold meeting hall where we were to meet, the leadership urged us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We glanced around, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our garments. The previous night, we had been given 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 minimal body fat as possible. And to appear as a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, exemplars, mature individuals, family providers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were summoned two by two. There the boss examined us from top to bottom with an chilling look. Mute and attentive. We stepped onto the balance one by one. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I sensed how the boss hesitated, looked at me and surveyed my nearly naked body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and compelled to stand here and be inspected and assessed.

I alighted from the scale and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer approached with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was cold and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach squeezed, pulled, forced, quantified, rechecked, mumbled something inaudible, reapplied force and squeezed my epidermis and body fat. After each assessment point, he declared the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no idea what the numbers stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide recorded the numbers into a record, and when all measurements had been determined, the document quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My reading was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why did I not, or anyone else, say anything?

Why didn't we rise and say what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently executed my professional demise. If I had challenged or opposed the methods that Collina had implemented then I would not have received any games, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become more athletic, weigh less and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was evident you must not be heavy, equally obvious you must be in shape – and sure, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an agenda where the most important thing was to lose weight and reduce your adipose level.

Our two annual courses subsequently adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, fitness exams, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a file, we all got data about our physical profile – arrows indicating if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five groups. An approved result was if you {belong