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I ventured to the basement, wiped the scales I had avoided for several years and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was bulky and unfit to being lean and well trained. It had required effort, packed with persistence, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the start of a transformation that slowly introduced anxiety, tension and unease around the tests that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a premier official, that the mass and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you risked being penalized, receiving less assignments and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the leading figure introduced a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physique, measurements of weight and body fat, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might sound like a given practice, but it had not 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 more specific tests designed for professional football referees.

Some umpires were identified as 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 regarding the findings of the eyesight exam, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It demonstrated competence, attention to detail and a goal to get better.

When it came to body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I mostly felt revulsion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the tests 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 the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the referees were separated into three units of about 15. When my group had walked into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to meet, the management directed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our garments. The prior evening, we had received explicit directions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to appear as a referee should according to the standard.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, caregivers, strong personalities with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were invited in pairs. There Collina examined us from head to toe with an frigid stare. Silent and watchful. We stepped on the scale one by one. I pulled in my belly, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors loudly announced: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I felt how the chief paused, looked at me and scanned my almost bare body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and compelled to be here and be inspected and assessed.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it felt like I was in a daze. The equivalent coach approached with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the tool was called, was cool and I started a little every time it made contact.

The trainer squeezed, drew, applied pressure, quantified, measured again, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and squeezed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each test site, he announced the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no idea what the values represented, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper recorded the values into a document, and when all measurements had been calculated, the document rapidly computed my complete adipose level. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or any other person, say anything?

What stopped us from rise and state what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time executed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or opposed the techniques that the boss had enforced then I would not have received any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also desired to become in better shape, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a elite arbiter. It was evident you ought not to be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you should be in shape – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a standardization. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the key objective was to reduce mass and minimise your body fat.

Our two annual courses after that followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a file, we all got data about our fitness statistics – pointers pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

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