Account of a Umpire: 'The Chief Examined Our Partially Clothed Bodies with an Chilling Gaze'

I went to the basement, cleaned the weighing machine I had evaded for several years and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was bulky and out of shape to being slender and fit. It had taken time, filled with persistence, hard calls and commitments. But it was also the beginning of a change that slowly introduced stress, strain and discomfort around the examinations that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a good umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a premier umpire, that the body mass and body fat were right, otherwise you risked being penalized, getting fewer matches and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the head official enacted a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an extreme focus on physique, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might seem like a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the training programs they not only tested basic things like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, 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 obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but nobody was certain – because about the results of the vision test, nothing was revealed in extended assemblies. For me, the eyesight exam was a confidence boost. It demonstrated professionalism, meticulousness and a aim to improve.

Regarding tests of weight and body fat, however, I largely sensed revulsion, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the examinations that were the issue, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the officials were split into three groups of about 15. When my team had walked into the large, cold conference room where we were to gather, the leadership directed us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our attire. The evening before, we had received clear instructions not to eat or drink 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 reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, top sportsmen, role models, adults, caregivers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but nobody spoke. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were invited as duos. There Collina examined us from head to toe with an frigid gaze. Silent and attentive. We stepped on the weighing machine individually. I contracted my abdomen, straightened my back and held my breath as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how the chief paused, observed me and inspected my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and obliged to be here and be evaluated and assessed.

I alighted from the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The same instructor advanced with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cool and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The instructor pressed, tugged, forced, gauged, measured again, spoke unclearly, pressed again and pinched my skin and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he declared the metric reading he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers stood for, if it was positive or negative. It required about a minute. An assistant inputted the numbers into a document, and when all measurements had been calculated, the record swiftly determined my complete adipose level. My reading was proclaimed, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or anyone else, say anything?

What stopped us from stand up and say what everyone thought: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time sealed my professional demise. If I had doubted or resisted the methods that Collina had introduced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also wanted to become fitter, be lighter and attain my target, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you must not be heavy, similarly apparent you should be conditioned – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professional upgrade. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a degrading weight check and an agenda where the key objective was to shed pounds and reduce your body fat.

Our two annual courses thereafter adhered to the same routine. Weight check, adipose evaluation, running tests, rule tests, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got information about our body metrics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or wrong direction (up).

Fat percentages were categorised into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong