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I descended to the cellar, cleaned the weighing machine I had shunned for several years and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was heavy and unfit to being light and conditioned. It had taken time, filled with persistence, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a change that slowly introduced stress, strain and unease around the examinations that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a top-level official, that the weight and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you risked being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, the leading figure introduced a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on physique, body mass assessments and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Vision tests might seem like a expected practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also specialized examinations adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but everyone was unsure – because regarding the results of the vision test, nothing was revealed in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It indicated competence, attention to detail and a aim to get better.

When it came to body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I primarily experienced disgust, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the referees were split into three teams of about 15. When my unit had entered the big, chilly assembly area where we were to meet, the supervisors urged us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our clothes. The previous night, we had received clear instructions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to appear as a referee should according to the standard.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, parents, assertive characters with great integrity … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were called forward two by two. There the chief scrutinized us from completely with an chilling look. Silent and observant. We stepped onto the scale individually. I pulled in my belly, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how Collina hesitated, looked at me and surveyed my nearly naked body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and forced to remain here and be evaluated and judged.

I stepped off the balance and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach advanced with a sort of clamp, a polygraph-like tool that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cool and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The coach squeezed, tugged, pressed, quantified, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, reapplied force and squeezed my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he announced the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no clue what the figures stood for, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide recorded the figures into a file, and when all readings had been determined, the file quickly calculated my overall body fat. My reading was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

What prevented me from, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from stand up and say what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time executed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or challenged the methods that Collina had introduced then I would have been denied any games, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become more athletic, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you must not be heavy, similarly apparent you should be fit – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a standardization. But it was wrong to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the most important thing was to lose weight and lower your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that followed the same pattern. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got facts about our body metrics – pointers pointing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong