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I descended to the lower level, dusted off the weighing machine I had shunned for many years and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a official who was overweight and untrained to being slender and well trained. It had demanded dedication, filled with determination, tough decisions and focus. But it was also the start of a shift that slowly introduced anxiety, tension and discomfort around the examinations that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a premier official, that the body mass and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physique, weigh-ins and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might sound like a given practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also targeted assessments designed for elite soccer officials.

Some referees were identified as color deficient. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers suggested, but no one knew for sure – because about the results of the optical assessment, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a confidence boost. It indicated competence, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

Concerning body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the umpires were separated into three units of about 15. When my group had stepped into the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to assemble, the management urged us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our clothes. The prior evening, we had received specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a official should according to the model.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, parents, confident individuals with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit nervously while we were summoned as duos. There the chief observed us from completely with an chilling gaze. Mute and attentive. We mounted the scale one by one. I pulled in my belly, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how the boss paused, glanced my way and surveyed my nearly naked body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and obliged to remain here and be inspected and judged.

I descended from the weighing machine and it seemed like I was in a daze. The identical trainer came forward with a sort of clamp, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cool and I started a little every time it made contact.

The trainer pressed, pulled, applied pressure, measured, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, reapplied force and pinched my skin and body fat. After each test site, he announced the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures stood for, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide recorded the numbers into a file, and when all readings had been determined, the document quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why didn't we rise and state what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously signed my end of my officiating path. If I had questioned or resisted the procedures that the boss had introduced then I would not have received any games, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also wanted to become in better shape, be lighter and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you shouldn't be heavy, equally obvious you must be fit – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to get there through a degrading weight check and an plan where the key objective was to lose weight and minimise your body fat.

Our two annual courses after that maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, fitness exams, rule tests, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got data about our physical profile – pointers showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

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