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I went to the lower level, wiped the scales I had evaded for many 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 heavy and unfit to being lean and conditioned. It had taken time, filled with determination, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the commencement of a shift that progressively brought anxiety, strain and disquiet around the tests that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, looking like a elite umpire, that the weight and body fat were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, being allocated fewer games and landing in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was replaced during the mid-2010 period, Pierluigi Collina enacted a number of changes. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only examined elementary factors like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also targeted assessments adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the whispers suggested, but nobody was certain – because regarding the results of the vision test, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the eyesight exam was a comfort. It indicated expertise, attention to detail and a desire to improve.

Regarding weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed aversion, anger and embarrassment. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The first time I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the umpires were separated into three units of about 15. When my unit had walked into the big, chilly assembly area where we were to meet, the management urged us to strip down to our underclothes. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our garments. The evening before, we had been given specific orders 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 minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the standard.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, top sportsmen, role models, mature individuals, caregivers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit nervously while we were summoned in pairs. There the boss examined us from top to bottom with an ice-cold look. Silent and observant. We mounted the weighing machine singly. I contracted my abdomen, adjusted my posture and held my breath as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how Collina stopped, observed me and surveyed my partially unclothed body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to remain here and be inspected and assessed.

I alighted from the balance and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer came forward with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The coach compressed, pulled, applied pressure, quantified, reassessed, spoke unclearly, squeezed once more and squeezed my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he announced the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no understanding what the values stood for, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide recorded the values into a file, and when all four values had been calculated, the file swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why didn't I, or any other person, say anything?

Why didn't we stand up and state what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had raised my voice I would have concurrently executed my end of my officiating path. If I had questioned or opposed the methods that Collina had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also aimed to become more athletic, be lighter and attain my target, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you should be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a standardization. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an agenda where the primary focus was to reduce mass and minimise your adipose level.

Our two annual courses thereafter followed the same pattern. Weight check, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a document, we all got information about our fitness statistics – pointers indicating if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

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