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I ventured to the basement, dusted off the weighing machine I had avoided for many years and observed the readout: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being lean and conditioned. It had required effort, full of persistence, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the beginning of a shift that progressively brought pressure, pressure and discomfort around the examinations that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a top-level referee, that the body mass and fat percentages were right, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the head official brought in a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might appear as a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also targeted assessments designed for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were identified as color deficient. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the results of the optical assessment, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It indicated competence, attention to detail and a aim to get better.

When it came to body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, irritation and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the umpires were separated into three teams of about 15. When my team had walked into the big, chilly assembly area where we were to meet, the management instructed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our clothes. The prior evening, we had been given explicit directions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as depleted 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 look like a referee should according to the standard.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, exemplars, grown-ups, family providers, assertive characters with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit nervously while we were called forward in pairs. There the boss examined us from head to toe with an chilling look. Silent and attentive. We stepped on the scale one by one. I sucked in my belly, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the boss stopped, glanced my way and surveyed my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and compelled to remain here and be inspected and critiqued.

I stepped off the balance and it appeared as if I was in a daze. The same instructor approached with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was cold and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor squeezed, pulled, pressed, quantified, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, reapplied force and squeezed my dermis and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he announced the number of millimetres he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the numbers represented, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An aide inputted the values into a file, and when all four values had been established, the record quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My result was announced, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or anyone else, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from get to our feet and say what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time executed my end of my officiating path. If I had challenged or opposed the methods that Collina had introduced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also wanted to become in better shape, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you ought not to be overweight, similarly apparent you must be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps required a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to get there through a humiliating weigh-in and an agenda where the most important thing was to lose weight and minimise your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions thereafter maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, running tests, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got facts about our physical profile – pointers indicating if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong