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I went to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had shunned for many years and observed the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was overweight and out of shape to being lean and well trained. It had taken time, filled with persistence, hard calls and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that gradually meant anxiety, tension and unease around the tests that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a elite referee, that the mass and fat percentages were right, otherwise you risked being penalized, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the leading figure enacted a number of changes. During the first year, there was an intense emphasis on physique, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only tested basic things like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also specialized examinations adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some officials were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip claimed, but nobody was certain – because about the outcomes of the optical assessment, nothing was revealed in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It demonstrated expertise, thoroughness and a desire to improve.

Concerning tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced disgust, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the fall of 2010 at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the opening day, the umpires were split into three units of about 15. When my unit had walked into the large, cold meeting hall where we were to assemble, the leadership instructed us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or ventured to speak.

We gradually removed our clothes. The prior evening, we had received clear instructions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to look like a official should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were the elite arbiters of European football, elite athletes, exemplars, mature individuals, family providers, strong personalities with great integrity … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were invited in pairs. There Collina scrutinized us from top to bottom with an chilling look. Silent and attentive. We mounted the balance individually. I contracted my abdomen, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I sensed how the chief hesitated, observed me and scanned my nearly naked body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and forced to stand here and be examined and critiqued.

I descended from the weighing machine and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The same instructor came forward with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he commenced pressing me with on assorted regions of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was cold and I jumped a little every time it made contact.

The instructor compressed, drew, applied pressure, measured, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and squeezed my dermis and body fat. After each test site, he called out the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An aide entered the numbers into a document, and when all four values had been established, the record swiftly determined my overall body fat. My result was declared, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

What prevented me from, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we stand up and state what everyone thought: that it was humiliating. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently sealed my career's death sentence. If I had doubted or resisted the techniques that Collina had introduced then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also wanted to become more athletic, weigh less and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was clear you ought not to be above the ideal weight, just as clear you must be fit – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the key objective was to shed pounds and lower your body fat.

Our biannual sessions thereafter maintained the same structure. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a file, we all got data about our physical profile – pointers showing if we were going in the correct path (down) or improper course (up).

Fat percentages were classified into five tiers. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong