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I ventured to the basement, dusted off the weighing machine I had shunned for several years and glanced at the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and out of shape to being lean and well trained. It had demanded dedication, full of determination, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the commencement of a shift that progressively brought stress, tension and discomfort around the examinations that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about prioritising diet, appearing as a top-level referee, that the mass and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you faced being disciplined, receiving less assignments and landing in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure brought in a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on body shape, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might appear as a expected practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only examined basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also specialized examinations tailored to professional football referees.

Some officials were identified as color deficient. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but everyone was unsure – because about the outcomes of the vision test, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled competence, attention to detail and a desire to enhance.

When it came to body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt disgust, irritation and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the umpires were divided into three units of about 15. When my group had entered the spacious, cool conference room where we were to meet, the management urged us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We glanced around, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our clothes. The prior evening, we had obtained explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the model.

There we stood in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the elite arbiters of European football, top sportsmen, exemplars, grown-ups, family providers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit anxiously while we were summoned as duos. There Collina observed us from head to toe with an frigid gaze. Silent and observant. We stepped on the weighing machine singly. I pulled in my stomach, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors clearly stated: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how the chief stopped, looked at me and scanned my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and obliged to stand here and be inspected and assessed.

I descended from the scale and it seemed like I was in a daze. The equivalent coach approached with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cool and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The instructor squeezed, pulled, pressed, gauged, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and compressed my dermis and body fat. After each assessment point, he announced the measurement in mm he could gauge.

I had no idea what the figures represented, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant entered the figures into a document, and when all readings had been calculated, the document quickly calculated my overall body fat. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

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

Why couldn't we get to our feet and express what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously sealed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or opposed the techniques that the chief had enforced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become more athletic, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you must not be heavy, just as clear you must be fit – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a standardization. But it was incorrect to try to get there through a humiliating weigh-in and an agenda where the key objective was to reduce mass and lower your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions subsequently adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, running tests, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got information about our fitness statistics – pointers showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong