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

I descended to the lower level, dusted off the balance I had evaded for a long time and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a umpire who was heavy and out of shape to being light and conditioned. It had required effort, packed with patience, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the start of a transformation that gradually meant anxiety, pressure and unease around the tests that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a elite referee, that the mass and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you faced being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and ending up in the sidelines.

When the officiating body was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure brought in a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Optical checks might seem like a standard practice, but it hadn't been before. At the sessions they not only tested elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a particular length, but also more specific tests adapted for professional football referees.

Some umpires were found to be color deficient. Another was revealed as partially sighted and was forced to quit. At least that's what the whispers said, but no one knew for sure – because concerning the findings of the vision test, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the optical check was a confidence boost. It demonstrated expertise, thoroughness and a aim to improve.

Concerning body mass examinations and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced aversion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the officials were divided into three groups of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to assemble, the leadership instructed us to undress to our underwear. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or dared to say anything.

We gradually removed our attire. The previous night, we had been given explicit directions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our intimate apparel. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, caregivers, assertive characters with strong ethics … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our gazes flickered a bit nervously while we were invited two by two. There the chief observed us from completely with an ice-cold gaze. Silent and watchful. We stepped on the weighing machine individually. I contracted my stomach, stood erect and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I sensed how the chief paused, looked at me and scanned my almost bare body. I mused that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and forced to be here and be evaluated and judged.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it seemed like I was disoriented. The identical trainer came forward with a kind of pliers, a polygraph-like tool that he began to pinch me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cool and I jumped a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer compressed, drew, pressed, measured, measured again, mumbled something inaudible, squeezed once more and pinched my epidermis and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he called out the number of millimetres he could gauge.

I had no idea what the figures signified, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An helper inputted the values into a file, and when all readings had been calculated, the record quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

Why couldn't we stand up and state what each person felt: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously signed my professional demise. If I had challenged or opposed the procedures that the chief had enforced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm convinced of that.

Certainly, I also desired to become more athletic, be lighter and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was clear you ought not to be heavy, equally obvious you must be in shape – and sure, maybe the complete roster of officials demanded a professionalisation. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an strategy where the primary focus was to reduce mass and minimise your body fat.

Our two annual courses after that maintained the same structure. Weight check, adipose evaluation, fitness exams, regulation quizzes, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got information about our fitness statistics – arrows indicating if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

Fat percentages were classified into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong