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I descended to the lower level, wiped the balance I had shunned for many years and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was overweight and untrained to being slender and fit. It had required effort, packed with determination, difficult choices and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that progressively brought anxiety, tension and disquiet around the examinations that the top management had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a elite umpire, that the mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, getting fewer matches and ending up in the cold.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the 2010 summer season, the head official brought in a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on body shape, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only examined elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also more specific tests tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were found to be colour blind. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours claimed, but no one knew for sure – because regarding the findings of the vision test, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a comfort. It demonstrated expertise, thoroughness and a desire to improve.

When it came to weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I mostly felt aversion, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the first morning, the officials were split into three units of about 15. When my team had stepped into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to assemble, the management directed us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We glanced around, but no one reacted or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our attire. The evening before, we had been given explicit directions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to undergo the test. 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 remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, top sportsmen, exemplars, mature individuals, family providers, strong personalities with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit anxiously while we were called forward in pairs. There Collina observed us from head to toe with an chilling gaze. Quiet and attentive. We stepped on the balance one by one. I contracted my belly, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the boss stopped, observed me and scanned my nearly naked body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to remain here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I alighted from the scale and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The identical trainer advanced with a kind of pliers, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The measuring tool, as the device was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it touched my body.

The coach compressed, pulled, pressed, measured, rechecked, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and pinched my epidermis and body fat. After each assessment point, he declared the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no idea what the numbers stood for, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper entered the numbers into a record, and when all four values had been calculated, the record quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

Why couldn't we rise and state what all were thinking: 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 techniques that Collina had introduced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become fitter, reduce my mass and achieve my objective, to become a world-class referee. It was clear you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, just as clear you ought to be conditioned – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a humiliating weigh-in and an strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and reduce your adipose level.

Our biannual sessions subsequently followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, fitness exams, rule tests, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a file, we all got information about our body metrics – pointers indicating if we were going in the correct path (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were categorised into five categories. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong