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I went to the cellar, cleaned the weighing machine I had shunned for many years and glanced at the display: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was bulky and unfit to being lean and well trained. It had demanded dedication, full of determination, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the start of a transformation that gradually meant anxiety, tension and disquiet around the tests that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about prioritising diet, presenting as a premier official, that the mass and adipose levels were appropriate, otherwise you risked being penalized, getting fewer matches and landing in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was restructured during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure enacted a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on body shape, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might appear as a given practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only examined basic things like being able to read small text at a particular length, but also targeted assessments designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were found to be color deficient. Another proved to be partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours said, but no one knew for sure – because about the findings of the optical assessment, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a confidence boost. It demonstrated professionalism, thoroughness and a goal to enhance.

Concerning weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed revulsion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the assessments that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the officials were divided into three groups of about 15. When my team had walked into the big, chilly conference room where we were to gather, the leadership instructed us to strip down to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our garments. The previous night, we had obtained 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 look like a official should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a long row, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, exemplars, adults, family providers, assertive characters with high principles … but nobody spoke. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were called forward two by two. There the chief examined us from top to bottom with an ice-cold stare. Silent and attentive. We stepped on the scale one by one. I sucked in my abdomen, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the coaches clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how Collina stopped, looked at me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an grown person and forced to stand here and be evaluated and assessed.

I descended from the balance and it seemed like I was in a daze. The identical trainer approached with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The pinching instrument, as the device was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor squeezed, tugged, pressed, measured, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and squeezed my skin and body fat. After each measurement area, he announced the metric reading he could assess.

I had no understanding what the numbers signified, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It lasted approximately a minute. An helper recorded the values into a record, and when all readings had been established, the document swiftly determined my overall body fat. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

Why didn't we stand up and state what everyone thought: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously executed my professional demise. If I had questioned or opposed the procedures that Collina had introduced then I would have been denied any games, I'm certain of that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become fitter, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you must not be overweight, similarly apparent you must be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials needed a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to get there through a degrading weight check and an agenda where the most important thing was to shed pounds and minimise your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, reviews of interpretations, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got data about our body metrics – arrows pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were categorised into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong