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I ventured to the basement, dusted off the weighing machine I had avoided for a long time and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a referee who was overweight and out of shape to being lean and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, full of patience, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that progressively brought stress, tension and disquiet around the assessments that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a elite referee, that the mass and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and landing in the cold.

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 extreme focus on body shape, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might sound like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the training programs they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments designed for professional football referees.

Some umpires were discovered as color deficient. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but nobody was certain – because about the findings of the eyesight exam, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It demonstrated professionalism, thoroughness and a aim to get better.

Regarding body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my team had walked into the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to gather, the supervisors directed us to undress to our underwear. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our garments. The prior evening, we had obtained clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to appear as a official should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, exemplars, mature individuals, caregivers, strong personalities with great integrity … but no one said anything. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were called forward two by two. There Collina scrutinized us from completely with an ice-cold stare. Silent and observant. We stepped on the weighing machine one by one. I contracted my abdomen, straightened my back and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how Collina stopped, glanced my way and scanned my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and forced to be here and be inspected and assessed.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it seemed like I was disoriented. The identical trainer came forward with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor pressed, tugged, applied pressure, quantified, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and pinched my skin and body fat. After each assessment point, he called out the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no clue what the values stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant recorded the figures into a file, and when all measurements had been established, the file quickly calculated my overall body fat. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

What prevented me from, or anyone else, say anything?

Why didn't we rise and express what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time sealed my professional demise. If I had questioned or challenged the procedures that Collina had implemented then I would not have received any games, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become fitter, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you ought not to be heavy, similarly apparent you should be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to get there through a degrading weight check and an agenda where the most important thing was to reduce mass and lower your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a document, we all got facts about our body metrics – indicators showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five categories. An approved result was if you {belong