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I descended to the cellar, wiped the scales I had evaded for a long time and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a referee who was heavy and out of shape to being slender and conditioned. It had required effort, filled with determination, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that gradually meant anxiety, strain and discomfort around the examinations that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about prioritising diet, presenting as a top-level official, that the weight and body fat were correct, otherwise you faced being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and ending up in the cold.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the mid-2010 period, Pierluigi Collina enacted a series of reforms. During the first year, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Eyesight examinations might appear as a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also more specific tests adapted for professional football referees.

Some referees were identified as colour blind. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but everyone was unsure – because about the results of the eyesight exam, nothing was revealed in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It signalled professionalism, thoroughness and a goal to improve.

Concerning weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the referees were separated into three groups of about 15. When my team had entered the large, cold conference room where we were to meet, the supervisors directed us to strip down to our underclothes. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our attire. The evening before, we had received clear instructions not to eat or drink 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 look like a referee should according to the standard.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, exemplars, mature individuals, caregivers, assertive characters with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were called forward in pairs. There Collina examined us from top to bottom with an ice-cold look. Mute and attentive. We stepped on the weighing machine individually. I pulled in my stomach, stood erect and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the boss paused, looked at me and inspected my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and obliged to remain here and be examined and assessed.

I descended from the balance and it appeared as if I was in a daze. The equivalent coach approached with a sort of clamp, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was cool and I flinched a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer squeezed, drew, forced, quantified, rechecked, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and pinched my dermis and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he called out the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no understanding what the values represented, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An helper recorded the values into a document, and when all readings had been determined, the file swiftly determined my overall body fat. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why didn't we stand up and say what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently sealed my professional demise. If I had doubted or resisted the techniques that the boss had implemented then I would have been denied any matches, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become in better shape, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was evident you must not be heavy, similarly apparent you ought to be in shape – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group required a standardization. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the key objective was to lose weight and minimise your body fat.

Our two annual courses thereafter adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, rule tests, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got facts about our physical profile – arrows pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were categorised into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong