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I descended to the basement, wiped the weighing machine I had avoided for a long time and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was heavy and unfit to being light and well trained. It had demanded dedication, filled with determination, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that progressively brought pressure, strain and disquiet around the tests that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a top-level referee, that the mass and adipose levels were right, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and landing in the cold.

When the officiating body was replaced during the summer of 2010, the leading figure brought in a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might seem like a standard practice, but it hadn't been before. At the sessions they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments designed for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but no one knew for sure – because about the outcomes of the vision test, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the eyesight exam was a confidence boost. It indicated expertise, meticulousness and a desire to improve.

Regarding weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt revulsion, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion 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 opening day, the umpires were split into three teams of about 15. When my group had walked into the big, chilly assembly area where we were to meet, the management directed us to undress to our underclothes. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our clothes. The evening before, we had been given specific orders not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, caregivers, assertive characters with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward in pairs. There the boss examined us from top to bottom with an chilling stare. Mute and attentive. We stepped on the scale singly. I sucked in my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how the chief stopped, observed me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and compelled to stand here and be evaluated and assessed.

I alighted from the balance and it seemed like I was in a daze. The identical trainer approached with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The coach pressed, drew, applied pressure, measured, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, reapplied force and squeezed my dermis and body fat. After each measurement area, he declared the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers signified, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An aide entered the figures into a document, and when all four values had been established, the record quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

What prevented me from, or any other person, speak up?

What stopped us from stand up and express what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously executed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or resisted the methods that the chief had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become more athletic, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a elite arbiter. It was evident you ought not to be heavy, just as clear you should be fit – and admittedly, maybe the entire referee corps required a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the key objective was to lose weight and minimise your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong