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I went to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for a long time and glanced at the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being lean and fit. It had taken time, packed with patience, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the commencement of a change that progressively brought anxiety, tension and discomfort around the assessments that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a elite referee, that the weight and body fat were appropriate, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and landing in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was overhauled during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure introduced a series of reforms. During the first year, there was an extreme focus on physique, measurements of weight and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it hadn't been before. At the training programs they not only tested basic things like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also specialized examinations designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some referees were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but nobody was certain – because about the outcomes of the vision test, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It indicated professionalism, attention to detail and a desire to improve.

When it came to tests of weight and body fat, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the referees were divided into three units of about 15. When my team had entered the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to meet, the leadership directed us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We carefully shed our clothes. The previous night, we had been given explicit directions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, inspirations, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with high principles … but nobody spoke. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were called forward in pairs. There the boss observed us from top to bottom with an frigid stare. Silent and attentive. We stepped on the scale individually. I sucked in my stomach, straightened my back and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I sensed how the chief hesitated, looked at me and inspected my nearly naked body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and compelled to remain here and be inspected and critiqued.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer advanced with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the tool was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, applied pressure, gauged, measured again, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and pinched my epidermis and fatty deposits. After each test site, he called out the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper entered the numbers into a file, and when all four values had been calculated, the record rapidly computed my total fat percentage. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or any other person, say anything?

Why didn't we stand up and express what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have concurrently sealed my professional demise. If I had doubted or challenged the techniques that the boss had implemented then I would not have received any matches, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become fitter, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you must not be overweight, similarly apparent you should be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the primary focus was to shed pounds and reduce your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, running tests, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got data about our body metrics – pointers pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five categories. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong