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I ventured to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had avoided for many years and looked at the display: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was bulky and unfit to being slender and conditioned. It had taken time, full of determination, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a change that progressively brought pressure, pressure and disquiet around the assessments that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a elite referee, that the mass and body fat were right, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, being allocated fewer games and landing in the sidelines.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina enacted a number of changes. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on body shape, weigh-ins and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might seem like a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the training programs they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also more specific tests adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were identified as colour blind. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip said, but everyone was unsure – because regarding the outcomes of the optical assessment, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a desire to get better.

When it came to body mass examinations and body fat, however, I largely sensed aversion, anger and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the initial session, the officials were divided into three teams of about 15. When my unit had entered the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to gather, the management instructed us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We glanced around, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We gradually removed 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 registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a long row, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, role models, mature individuals, family providers, strong personalities with great integrity … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were called forward in pairs. There the chief scrutinized us from head to toe with an ice-cold gaze. Quiet and watchful. We stepped on the scale singly. I contracted my belly, stood erect and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how Collina stopped, glanced my way and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and obliged to stand here and be inspected and critiqued.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The equivalent coach advanced with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the device was called, was cold and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The instructor squeezed, pulled, applied pressure, quantified, measured again, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and compressed my epidermis and fatty deposits. After each test site, he called out the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no clue what the figures signified, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It lasted approximately a minute. An aide recorded the values into a file, and when all four values had been calculated, the document quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or anyone else, speak up?

Why didn't we stand up and say what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time sealed my career's death sentence. If I had challenged or opposed the techniques that the boss had implemented then I would have been denied any matches, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also wanted to become in better shape, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you shouldn't be overweight, equally obvious you should be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an plan where the key objective was to lose weight and minimise your body fat.

Our biannual sessions after that adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got information about our body metrics – indicators showing if we were going in the correct path (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong