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I descended to the lower level, dusted off the scales I had shunned for a long time and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was overweight and unfit to being slender and fit. It had required effort, filled with persistence, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the start of a shift that gradually meant anxiety, strain and discomfort around the tests that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a elite referee, that the mass and fat percentages were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, being allocated fewer games and landing in the cold.

When the officiating body was restructured during the summer of 2010, the head official enacted a set of modifications. During the first year, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, weigh-ins and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might sound like a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only examined elementary factors like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also specialized examinations adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some referees were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another proved to be partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours claimed, but nobody was certain – because concerning the results of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It indicated competence, attention to detail and a goal to improve.

Concerning body mass examinations and body fat, however, I largely sensed aversion, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the fall of 2010 at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the referees were separated into three groups of about 15. When my group had entered the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to gather, the leadership instructed us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our attire. The previous night, we had received explicit directions not to have any nourishment 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 look like a official should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the elite arbiters of European football, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, family providers, strong personalities with high principles … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were summoned as duos. There the chief examined us from top to bottom with an ice-cold look. Quiet and observant. We mounted the weighing machine individually. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how the chief hesitated, observed me and scanned my nearly naked body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and forced to remain here and be examined and critiqued.

I descended from the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The equivalent coach advanced with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The coach pressed, drew, applied pressure, measured, measured again, uttered indistinct words, squeezed once more and pinched my epidermis and body fat. After each test site, he declared the metric reading he could measure.

I had no clue what the figures signified, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper inputted the values into a document, and when all measurements had been determined, the file quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My value was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

Why didn't we stand up and express what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had spoken out I would have simultaneously executed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or resisted the techniques that the chief had introduced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become in better shape, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you ought not to be overweight, equally obvious you should be fit – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and reduce your fat percentage.

Our twice-yearly trainings subsequently followed the same pattern. Weight check, body fat assessment, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five groups. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong