🔗 Share this article

I went to the basement, cleaned the balance I had avoided for several years and looked at the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was heavy and out of shape to being slender and conditioned. It had taken time, filled with persistence, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the beginning of a change that slowly introduced anxiety, tension and discomfort around the tests that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a premier referee, that the body mass and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, receiving less assignments and ending up in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the leading figure brought in a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on body shape, weigh-ins and adipose tissue, and compulsory eyesight exams. Vision tests might seem like a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only tested basic things like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also targeted assessments designed for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but no one knew for sure – because concerning the results of the optical assessment, details were withheld in extended assemblies. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It indicated professionalism, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

When it came to body mass examinations and body fat, however, I largely sensed disgust, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The first time I was compelled to undergo the embarrassing ritual was in the fall of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the officials were split into three units of about 15. When my group had walked into the large, cold meeting hall where we were to gather, the supervisors instructed us to remove our clothes to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our attire. The previous night, we had received 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 reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the model.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, inspirations, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit nervously while we were called forward two by two. There Collina examined us from completely with an ice-cold look. Quiet and attentive. We mounted the scale one by one. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the coaches loudly announced: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how Collina hesitated, looked at me and scanned my nearly naked body. I reflected that this is not worthy. I'm an adult and compelled to remain here and be inspected and critiqued.

I descended from the scale and it appeared as if I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach approached with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on assorted regions of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was cool and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor compressed, tugged, applied pressure, gauged, measured again, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and compressed my skin and adipose tissue. After each test site, he called out the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no understanding what the numbers signified, if it was positive or negative. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant entered the numbers into a file, and when all readings had been calculated, the file swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why did I not, or any other person, speak up?

Why couldn't we stand up and express what everyone thought: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously executed my career's death sentence. If I had challenged or challenged the techniques that the chief had introduced then I would not have received any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also desired to become more athletic, reduce my mass and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you ought to be fit – and certainly, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the key objective was to reduce mass and minimise your fat percentage.

Our twice-yearly trainings subsequently adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a file, we all got information about our body metrics – pointers showing if we were going in the correct path (down) or improper course (up).

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