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I ventured to the cellar, wiped the scales I had evaded for many years and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was heavy and out of shape to being light and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of patience, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the start of a shift that gradually meant pressure, tension and disquiet around the assessments that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about prioritising diet, presenting as a top-level referee, that the weight and body fat were correct, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physique, weigh-ins and adipose tissue, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations 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 decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also specialized examinations designed for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were discovered as color deficient. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but no one knew for sure – because about the results of the eyesight exam, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It indicated competence, attention to detail and a goal to get better.

Concerning weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed revulsion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The opening instance I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the umpires were separated into three teams of about 15. When my group had walked into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to meet, the supervisors urged us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We glanced around, but nobody responded or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our clothes. The prior evening, we had received explicit directions not to consume food or beverages 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 low a fat percentage as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the model.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, inspirations, adults, caregivers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were summoned two by two. There Collina scrutinized us from completely with an frigid look. Mute and watchful. We stepped on the scale individually. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how the boss paused, looked at me and scanned my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and forced to stand here and be inspected and critiqued.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The identical trainer came forward with a sort of clamp, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it pressed against me.

The instructor compressed, tugged, pressed, measured, rechecked, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and pinched my skin and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he announced the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no clue what the values represented, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An assistant inputted the figures into a file, and when all readings had been determined, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My reading was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or any other person, speak up?

What stopped us from get to our feet and express what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time sealed my career's death sentence. If I had challenged or opposed the procedures that the chief had implemented then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also aimed to become fitter, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you must not be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you ought to be fit – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group needed a standardization. But it was wrong to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and minimise your body fat.

Our two annual courses thereafter followed the same pattern. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got data about our fitness statistics – pointers pointing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

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