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I went to the cellar, dusted off the balance I had evaded for a long time and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a umpire who was bulky and out of shape to being slender and conditioned. It had required effort, filled with persistence, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the start of a change that gradually meant stress, strain and discomfort around the examinations that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about prioritising diet, looking like a elite umpire, that the body mass and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you risked being disciplined, receiving less assignments and ending up in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was restructured during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina introduced a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on body shape, weigh-ins and body fat, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might appear as a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also more specific tests adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were found to be color deficient. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip said, but everyone was unsure – because regarding the findings of the optical assessment, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a comfort. It signalled professionalism, thoroughness and a goal to enhance.

Concerning weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed aversion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my group had walked into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to meet, the leadership instructed us to strip down to our underwear. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our garments. The prior evening, we had obtained specific orders not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, inspirations, grown-ups, caregivers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were invited in pairs. There the boss scrutinized us from completely with an frigid stare. Quiet and attentive. We mounted the weighing machine singly. I pulled in my belly, adjusted my posture and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how Collina paused, glanced my way and scanned my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an adult and obliged to stand here and be examined and judged.

I stepped off the scale and it appeared as if I was in a daze. The equivalent coach approached with a kind of pliers, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The measuring tool, as the tool was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, pressed, measured, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and compressed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each test site, he announced the metric reading he could measure.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide inputted the numbers into a file, and when all readings had been determined, the file quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why didn't I, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from rise and say what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously executed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or challenged the techniques that Collina had implemented then I wouldn't have got any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also wanted to become more athletic, reduce my mass and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you ought not to be overweight, just as clear you should be fit – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group required a professionalisation. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and lower your adipose level.

Our biannual sessions after that maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, running tests, rule tests, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got facts about our physical profile – indicators indicating if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five categories. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong