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I descended to the cellar, wiped the balance I had evaded for several years and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a referee who was heavy and untrained to being light and fit. It had demanded dedication, full of persistence, tough decisions and focus. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that slowly introduced stress, strain and discomfort around the tests that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about prioritising diet, appearing as a top-level referee, that the weight and fat percentages were right, otherwise you faced being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and ending up in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was restructured during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a number of changes. During the initial period, 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 courses they not only examined basic things like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also targeted assessments adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some referees were identified as colour blind. Another proved to be partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers said, but no one knew for sure – because concerning the results of the vision test, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It signalled expertise, meticulousness and a desire to improve.

Regarding body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt revulsion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the fall of 2010 at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the referees were divided into three groups of about 15. When my group had entered the large, cold assembly area where we were to meet, the leadership instructed us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We glanced around, but no one reacted or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our clothes. The previous night, we had been given clear instructions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to appear as a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the elite arbiters of European football, professional competitors, role models, adults, family providers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit nervously while we were summoned as duos. There the chief examined us from completely with an chilling look. Quiet and observant. We stepped on the scale individually. I sucked in my abdomen, stood erect and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the coaches audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how the chief stopped, glanced my way and surveyed my almost bare body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an adult and obliged to be here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I alighted from the balance and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer came forward with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The pinching instrument, as the device was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The coach squeezed, tugged, applied pressure, quantified, measured again, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and squeezed my skin and body fat. After each test site, he declared the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no understanding what the values signified, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper entered the numbers into a document, and when all readings had been determined, the record quickly calculated my overall body fat. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why did I not, or anyone else, speak up?

What stopped us from get to our feet and express what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had voiced my concerns I would have at the same time executed my professional demise. If I had doubted or challenged the methods that the boss had enforced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become more athletic, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you shouldn't be overweight, equally obvious you should be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a standardization. But it was incorrect to try to get there through a humiliating weigh-in and an plan where the primary focus was to lose weight and lower your adipose level.

Our biannual sessions thereafter maintained the same structure. Weight check, adipose evaluation, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got facts about our physical profile – indicators indicating if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

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