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I went to the basement, dusted off the balance I had shunned for a long time and observed the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a referee who was bulky and untrained to being light and well trained. It had demanded dedication, filled with determination, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the start of a transformation that slowly introduced stress, tension and disquiet around the tests that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about prioritising diet, presenting as a top-level umpire, that the mass and fat percentages were right, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, getting fewer matches and landing in the cold.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the summer of 2010, the leading figure enacted a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might appear as a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also more specific tests designed for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip said, but nobody was certain – because about the findings of the vision test, nothing was revealed in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled expertise, meticulousness and a aim to enhance.

When it came to body mass examinations and body fat, however, I primarily experienced disgust, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the initial session, the referees were separated into three units of about 15. When my team had walked into the large, cold assembly area where we were to meet, the leadership instructed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our attire. The previous night, we had received clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the standard.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, family providers, assertive characters with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were called forward as duos. There the chief observed us from head to toe with an chilling stare. Mute and observant. We stepped on the balance singly. I sucked in my stomach, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the coaches clearly stated: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how Collina hesitated, glanced my way and inspected my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and obliged to stand here and be examined and assessed.

I descended from the balance and it appeared as if I was in a daze. The equivalent coach approached with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the tool was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The instructor pressed, tugged, pressed, quantified, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, squeezed once more and squeezed my skin and body fat. After each test site, he declared the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the values represented, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper entered the values into a document, and when all measurements had been calculated, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

Why didn't we stand up and say what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time executed my professional demise. If I had challenged or challenged the procedures that Collina had enforced then I would not have received any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also desired to become in better shape, reduce my mass and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you shouldn't be heavy, just as clear you should be in shape – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professionalisation. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an agenda where the primary focus was to shed pounds and reduce your adipose level.

Our biannual sessions subsequently adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, fitness exams, laws of the game examinations, reviews of interpretations, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a file, we all got information about our body metrics – pointers showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong