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I went to the lower level, dusted off the balance I had avoided for several years and looked at the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a official who was bulky and untrained to being light and well trained. It had taken time, packed with patience, tough decisions and focus. But it was also the beginning of a transformation that progressively brought pressure, tension and unease around the tests that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a good official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a elite official, that the weight and body fat were right, otherwise you faced being reprimanded, being allocated fewer games and landing in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the head official brought in a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physique, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might appear as a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only tested elementary factors like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also specialized examinations tailored to professional football referees.

Some referees were discovered as color deficient. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but nobody was certain – because about the outcomes of the optical assessment, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a confidence boost. It indicated competence, attention to detail and a goal to improve.

Regarding weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt disgust, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The first time I was obliged to experience the degrading process 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 team had walked into the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to meet, the supervisors directed us to strip down to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our attire. The evening before, we had obtained clear instructions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the standard.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, inspirations, adults, caregivers, assertive characters with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were invited as duos. There the chief observed us from top to bottom with an chilling look. Quiet and attentive. We stepped on the weighing machine one by one. I contracted my stomach, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how the boss stopped, observed me and scanned my almost bare body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and forced to be here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I descended from the balance and it felt like I was in a daze. The same instructor came forward with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze 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 pressed, pulled, applied pressure, measured, rechecked, spoke unclearly, squeezed once more and pinched my skin and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he announced the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no clue what the values stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide entered the values into a file, and when all four values had been determined, the file swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or any other person, say anything?

What stopped us from rise and state what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently signed my end of my officiating path. If I had doubted or opposed the methods that Collina had implemented then I would have been denied any games, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become fitter, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you ought not to be overweight, equally obvious you should be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a standardization. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the most important thing was to lose weight and lower your body fat.

Our two annual courses thereafter adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got data about our physical profile – pointers pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

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