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I descended to the lower level, dusted off the weighing machine I had shunned for many years and observed the readout: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being light and conditioned. It had taken time, packed with patience, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a change that gradually meant pressure, strain and discomfort around the assessments that the leadership had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a premier official, that the weight and fat percentages were right, otherwise you were in danger of being reprimanded, receiving less assignments and ending up in the cold.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the head official introduced a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an intense emphasis on physique, measurements of weight and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might sound like a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only tested elementary factors like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also more specific tests designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were discovered as color deficient. Another proved to be partially sighted and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers said, but nobody was certain – because regarding the outcomes of the optical assessment, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It indicated professionalism, meticulousness and a aim to get better.

Concerning tests of weight and adipose measurement, however, I largely sensed aversion, anger and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the fall of 2010 at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the officials were divided into three groups of about 15. When my group had walked into the large, cold conference room where we were to assemble, the management instructed us to strip down to our underclothes. We glanced around, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our clothes. The prior evening, we had been given specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the standard.

There we stood in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, top sportsmen, role models, mature individuals, caregivers, assertive characters with great integrity … but nobody spoke. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were called forward in pairs. There the chief observed us from head to toe with an frigid look. Silent and observant. We stepped onto the balance singly. I pulled in my belly, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would change the outcome. One of the coaches clearly stated: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the chief paused, glanced my way and scanned my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and forced to be here and be inspected and judged.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it seemed like I was in a daze. The equivalent coach approached with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he commenced pressing me with on various areas of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The coach squeezed, drew, forced, gauged, measured again, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and squeezed my dermis and body fat. After each measurement area, he called out the metric reading he could measure.

I had no clue what the values signified, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An helper entered the numbers into a file, and when all readings had been determined, the record rapidly computed my total fat percentage. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

What prevented me from, or any other person, speak up?

Why couldn't we rise and express what everyone thought: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have concurrently executed my professional demise. If I had questioned or challenged the methods that Collina had enforced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm convinced of that.

Of course, I also aimed to become fitter, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you ought not to be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you must be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the most important thing was to reduce mass and reduce your body fat.

Our biannual sessions subsequently followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a file, we all got data about our fitness statistics – indicators pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong