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I went to the basement, wiped the balance I had shunned for a long time and observed the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was heavy and untrained to being slender and fit. It had taken time, filled with persistence, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a change that slowly introduced pressure, pressure and discomfort around the examinations that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about prioritising diet, looking like a elite official, that the weight and fat percentages were right, otherwise you risked being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and landing in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the head official enacted a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might sound like a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only evaluated elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also more specific tests adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were discovered as colour blind. Another proved to be partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but nobody was certain – because about the results of the optical assessment, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It indicated competence, meticulousness and a goal to get better.

Regarding body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced disgust, irritation and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the umpires were separated into three groups of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the large, cold meeting hall where we were to assemble, the leadership directed us to undress to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our attire. The previous night, we had received clear instructions not to eat or drink 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 look like a official should according to the model.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, exemplars, adults, parents, assertive characters with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit nervously while we were invited two by two. There the chief scrutinized us from head to toe with an ice-cold look. Silent and attentive. We stepped onto the balance one by one. I pulled in my belly, adjusted my posture and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I felt how the boss stopped, observed me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I mused that this is undignified. I'm an adult and compelled to be here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I alighted from the scale and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach advanced with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The measuring tool, as the device was called, was cold and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor pressed, pulled, pressed, gauged, reassessed, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and squeezed my skin and fatty deposits. After each test site, he called out the metric reading he could measure.

I had no clue what the numbers signified, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An assistant inputted the numbers into a file, and when all readings had been established, the record quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

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

What stopped us from stand up and say what each person felt: that it was humiliating. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time sealed my career's death sentence. If I had challenged or opposed the procedures that Collina had introduced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become more athletic, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you must not be overweight, equally obvious you should be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the key objective was to lose weight and minimise your body fat.

Our two annual courses subsequently followed the same pattern. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got data about our physical profile – indicators showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five categories. An approved result was if you {belong