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I went to the lower level, wiped the weighing machine I had shunned for a long time and glanced at the display: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was bulky and out of shape to being light and well trained. It had demanded dedication, packed with patience, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the beginning of a shift that progressively brought stress, tension and discomfort around the examinations that the authorities had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a good umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a premier official, that the mass and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you faced being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and landing in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on body shape, weigh-ins and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might seem like a expected practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only tested basic things like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, but also more specific tests adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were identified as colour blind. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the findings of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It signalled competence, meticulousness and a aim to get better.

Regarding body mass examinations and body fat, however, I primarily experienced aversion, anger and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the referees were divided into three groups of about 15. When my group had stepped into the spacious, cool conference room where we were to meet, the supervisors directed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our clothes. The evening before, we had been given specific orders not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the model.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the elite arbiters of European football, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, parents, assertive characters with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were called forward as duos. There the boss scrutinized us from completely with an ice-cold gaze. Silent and observant. We mounted the balance singly. I pulled in my belly, straightened my back and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how Collina paused, glanced my way and surveyed my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and forced to be here and be inspected and critiqued.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach advanced with a sort of clamp, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The instructor squeezed, pulled, applied pressure, measured, measured again, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and squeezed my dermis and fatty deposits. After each assessment point, he announced the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no clue what the values signified, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide recorded the values into a document, and when all readings had been established, the record rapidly computed my overall body fat. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

What prevented me from, or somebody else, speak up?

What stopped us from get to our feet and say what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously signed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or resisted the procedures that Collina had implemented then I would not have received any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also desired to become fitter, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was evident you ought not to be heavy, just as clear you must be fit – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to get there through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the primary focus was to lose weight and reduce your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got information about our body metrics – pointers pointing if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

Fat percentages were grouped into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong