Journal of a Official: 'Collina Scrutinized Our Nearly Nude Bodies with an Ice-Cold Gaze'

I went to the basement, dusted off the scales I had avoided for a long time and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was heavy and untrained to being lean and conditioned. It had required effort, packed with determination, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the commencement of a shift that progressively brought anxiety, tension and unease around the examinations that the top management had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a top-level official, that the weight and fat percentages were right, otherwise you faced being penalized, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the sidelines.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the leading figure enacted a number of changes. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on body shape, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Eyesight examinations might seem like a standard practice, but it hadn't been before. At the training programs they not only evaluated basic things like being able to read small text at a certain distance, but also more specific tests tailored to professional football referees.

Some officials were identified as colour blind. Another was revealed as blind in one eye and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours claimed, but everyone was unsure – because about the findings of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It signalled competence, thoroughness and a goal to enhance.

Concerning tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed revulsion, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was compelled to undergo the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the initial session, the umpires were split into three groups of about 15. When my unit had walked into the large, cold conference room where we were to assemble, the leadership directed us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We slowly took off our clothes. The previous night, we had received explicit directions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the elite arbiters of European football, top sportsmen, exemplars, mature individuals, parents, confident individuals with high principles … but no one said anything. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit anxiously while we were called forward as duos. There the chief observed us from head to toe with an chilling stare. Silent and watchful. We stepped on the scale singly. I sucked in my stomach, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the instructors clearly stated: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I sensed how the boss hesitated, observed me and inspected my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and obliged to be here and be inspected and critiqued.

I alighted from the balance and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The equivalent coach came forward with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cold and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The coach squeezed, tugged, applied pressure, quantified, measured again, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and compressed my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each test site, he called out the number of millimetres he could assess.

I had no idea what the figures stood for, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An helper inputted the numbers into a document, and when all four values had been determined, the record quickly calculated my overall body fat. My result was declared, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or somebody else, speak up?

Why didn't we get to our feet and express what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have at the same time signed my professional demise. If I had challenged or challenged the procedures that Collina had implemented then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm sure about that.

Certainly, I also wanted to become more athletic, be lighter and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you ought not to be heavy, just as clear you ought to be fit – and certainly, maybe the entire referee corps needed a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the most important thing was to lose weight and lower your body fat.

Our two annual courses subsequently followed the same pattern. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, endurance assessments, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a report, we all got data about our body metrics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five tiers. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong