Account of a Umpire: 'The Boss Scrutinized Our Partially Clothed Bodies with an Ice-Cold Gaze'

I went to the basement, cleaned the weighing machine I had shunned for several years and observed the screen: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a referee who was bulky and untrained to being slender and fit. It had required effort, full of determination, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that gradually meant anxiety, strain and unease around the assessments that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a top-level referee, that the mass and adipose levels were right, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, getting fewer matches and ending up in the cold.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina brought in a set of modifications. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physique, measurements of weight and adipose tissue, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might seem like a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the sessions they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also more specific tests designed for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were identified as colour blind. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours said, but nobody was certain – because regarding the outcomes of the eyesight exam, nothing was revealed in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a confidence boost. It signalled expertise, attention to detail and a desire to improve.

Regarding weighing assessments and adipose measurement, however, I mostly felt aversion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the method of implementation.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the fall of 2010 at our annual course. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the opening day, the umpires were split into three teams of about 15. When my team had stepped into the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to assemble, the supervisors urged us to undress to our underclothes. We glanced around, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our attire. The evening before, we had obtained explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to resemble a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, exemplars, adults, caregivers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were summoned two by two. There the chief examined us from completely with an chilling gaze. Mute and watchful. We mounted the weighing machine one by one. I sucked in my abdomen, stood erect and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how Collina stopped, looked at me and surveyed my nearly naked body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and forced to stand here and be evaluated and critiqued.

I alighted from the scale and it felt like I was disoriented. The identical trainer approached with a kind of pliers, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he commenced pressing 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 touched my body.

The coach squeezed, drew, forced, quantified, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and pinched my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he announced the measurement in mm he could measure.

I had no clue what the values signified, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide inputted the numbers into a record, and when all readings had been established, the document swiftly determined my overall body fat. My result was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

Why couldn't we rise and state what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously signed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or opposed the procedures that the boss had implemented then I wouldn't have got any matches, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also aimed to become in better shape, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you should be in shape – and sure, maybe the entire referee corps needed a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an plan where the primary focus was to lose weight and minimise your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that adhered to the same routine. Weigh-in, measurement of fat percentage, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, group work and then at the end a summary was provided. On a report, we all got data about our body metrics – arrows 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