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I descended to the lower level, wiped the balance I had shunned for many years and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was overweight and unfit to being lean and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, full of patience, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that gradually meant stress, strain and disquiet around the assessments that the top management had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about prioritising diet, looking like a elite official, that the mass and adipose levels were appropriate, otherwise you risked being penalized, being allocated fewer games and ending up in the sidelines.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, the leading figure introduced a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on body shape, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Eyesight examinations might seem like a given practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only examined basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also targeted assessments adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were found to be colour blind. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the findings of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a goal to improve.

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

The opening instance I was forced to endure the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the first morning, the umpires were separated into three teams of about 15. When my team had entered the large, cold assembly area where we were to gather, the management urged us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We glanced around, but nobody responded or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our attire. The previous night, we had been given clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, inspirations, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with high principles … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit nervously while we were invited in pairs. There the chief examined us from completely with an frigid stare. Mute and attentive. We mounted the balance individually. I pulled in my belly, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the chief stopped, glanced my way and scanned my almost bare body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to be here and be inspected and judged.

I stepped off the scale and it seemed like I was in a daze. The identical trainer advanced with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach squeezed, drew, applied pressure, measured, reassessed, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and squeezed my dermis and fatty deposits. After each assessment point, he announced the measurement in mm he could assess.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide inputted the numbers into a record, and when all readings had been determined, the record rapidly computed my overall body fat. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

What stopped us from get to our feet and express what everyone thought: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously sealed my professional demise. If I had doubted or resisted the methods that the boss had enforced then I would have been denied any games, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also desired to become in better shape, reduce my mass and achieve my objective, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you shouldn't be heavy, just as clear you should be fit – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an plan where the most important thing was to reduce mass and lower your body fat.

Our two annual courses after that maintained the same structure. Weight check, body fat assessment, running tests, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got facts about our body metrics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

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