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I went to the basement, cleaned the weighing machine I had shunned for a long time and glanced at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was overweight and out of shape to being lean and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, full of patience, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a shift that slowly introduced pressure, tension and discomfort around the assessments that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a elite official, that the weight and body fat were correct, otherwise you faced being penalized, getting fewer matches and ending up in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was overhauled during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure brought in a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, body mass assessments and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might seem 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 more specific tests adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were discovered as color deficient. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the outcomes of the optical assessment, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It indicated professionalism, thoroughness and a goal to enhance.

Regarding body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt revulsion, anger and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The first time I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the opening day, the officials were divided into three units of about 15. When my group had stepped into the large, cold meeting hall where we were to gather, the management urged us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our garments. The evening before, we had been given clear instructions 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 showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to appear as a referee should according to the model.

There we remained in a long row, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, inspirations, grown-ups, caregivers, confident individuals with great integrity … but nobody spoke. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were called forward as duos. There Collina examined us from completely with an ice-cold stare. Mute and observant. We mounted the balance individually. I pulled in my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the coaches clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how Collina stopped, observed me and inspected my nearly naked body. I mused that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be examined and judged.

I stepped off the balance and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer came forward with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach compressed, drew, forced, gauged, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and compressed my skin and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he announced the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no clue what the figures stood for, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant entered the numbers into a record, and when all measurements had been calculated, the file rapidly computed my overall body fat. My result was announced, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

What prevented me from, or anyone else, speak up?

Why didn't we rise and state what everyone thought: that it was degrading. 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 resisted the methods that the chief had implemented then I would have been denied any matches, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become more athletic, weigh less and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be above the ideal weight, just as clear you must be fit – and admittedly, maybe the complete roster of officials required a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the primary focus was to lose weight and lower your body fat.

Our two annual courses thereafter followed the same pattern. Weight check, adipose evaluation, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got data about our body metrics – arrows showing if we were going in the correct path (down) or improper course (up).

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