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I went to the cellar, cleaned the weighing machine I had shunned for several years and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was overweight and unfit to being slender and fit. It had required effort, filled with determination, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that progressively brought stress, strain and unease around the assessments that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a top-level referee, that the weight and fat percentages were right, otherwise you risked being disciplined, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was restructured during the summer of 2010, the leading figure brought in a set of modifications. During the first year, there was an extreme focus on physique, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might sound like a standard practice, but it hadn't been before. At the training programs they not only examined fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some referees were found to be unable to distinguish certain hues. Another proved to be blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers suggested, but nobody was certain – because concerning the outcomes of the optical assessment, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It indicated expertise, thoroughness and a desire to improve.

Regarding body mass examinations and adipose measurement, however, I mostly felt disgust, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the opening day, the officials were divided into three groups of about 15. When my group had walked into the big, chilly conference room where we were to assemble, the management directed us to strip down to our underwear. We glanced around, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our garments. The evening before, we had obtained clear instructions not to have any nourishment 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 low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the standard.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, inspirations, adults, caregivers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were invited two by two. There the boss scrutinized us from head to toe with an chilling look. Mute and attentive. We stepped onto the balance one by one. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the instructors clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the boss stopped, looked at me and inspected my nearly naked body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and obliged to be here and be examined and judged.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach approached with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the tool was called, was cool and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, applied pressure, measured, reassessed, spoke unclearly, squeezed once more and pinched my dermis and fatty deposits. After each assessment point, he announced the metric reading he could measure.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide recorded the numbers into a file, and when all four values had been determined, the file quickly calculated my overall body fat. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why didn't I, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we get to our feet and say what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had voiced my concerns I would have at the same time executed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or challenged the methods that the boss had enforced then I would have been denied any games, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also desired to become more athletic, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you ought not to be overweight, equally obvious you ought to be conditioned – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an agenda where the most important thing was to lose weight and minimise your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got facts about our fitness statistics – pointers pointing if we were going in the right direction (down) or incorrect path (up).

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