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I ventured to the basement, wiped the weighing machine I had avoided for a long time and observed the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and out of shape to being lean and fit. It had demanded dedication, packed with patience, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that progressively brought stress, pressure and unease around the tests that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a premier referee, that the body mass and adipose levels were right, otherwise you faced being penalized, being allocated fewer games and ending up in the cold.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the mid-2010 period, Pierluigi Collina brought in a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on body shape, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only examined basic things like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also more specific tests adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some referees were discovered as color deficient. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but no one knew for sure – because about the findings of the vision test, nothing was revealed in extended assemblies. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It signalled expertise, attention to detail and a desire to improve.

When it came to tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt revulsion, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the referees were split into three teams of about 15. When my unit had entered the big, chilly conference room where we were to gather, the leadership instructed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our garments. The prior evening, we had received specific orders not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a official should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, role models, mature individuals, parents, confident individuals with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were invited in pairs. There the chief examined us from completely with an ice-cold look. Silent and observant. We stepped onto the scale singly. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how the chief paused, looked at me and inspected my nearly naked body. I mused that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and compelled to remain here and be inspected and assessed.

I stepped off the balance and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer approached with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on various areas of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it made contact.

The instructor compressed, drew, forced, measured, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and pinched my dermis and body fat. After each test site, he called out the number of millimetres he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant entered the values into a record, and when all readings had been established, the document swiftly determined my total fat percentage. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why didn't we get to our feet and state what each person felt: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had questioned or opposed the techniques that the boss had implemented then I would have been denied any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become in better shape, weigh less and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you ought not to be overweight, equally obvious you should be in shape – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an plan where the key objective was to reduce mass and lower your body fat.

Our two annual courses after that adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got information about our fitness statistics – indicators indicating if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five categories. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong