🔗 Share this article

I ventured to the cellar, dusted off the balance I had evaded for many years and observed the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was heavy and out of shape to being lean and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, packed with persistence, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a change that slowly introduced anxiety, tension and disquiet around the tests that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a top-level official, that the mass and adipose levels were appropriate, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the summer of 2010, Pierluigi Collina brought in a series of reforms. During the initial period, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Eyesight examinations might seem like a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only examined elementary factors like being able to see fine print at a specific range, but also more specific tests designed for professional football referees.

Some umpires were identified as color deficient. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the rumours said, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the outcomes of the optical assessment, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a desire to improve.

Concerning weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced disgust, frustration and degradation. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our annual course. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the referees were split into three units of about 15. When my team had entered the big, chilly conference room where we were to gather, the management urged us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We looked at each other, but nobody responded or dared to say anything.

We carefully shed our garments. The previous night, we had obtained explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the model.

There we remained in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, inspirations, mature individuals, family providers, assertive characters with high principles … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were called forward as duos. There the chief observed us from head to toe with an chilling stare. Quiet and watchful. We mounted the weighing machine singly. I sucked in my belly, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how Collina paused, observed me and scanned my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and obliged to remain here and be examined and judged.

I alighted from the scale and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach came forward with a type of caliper, a polygraph-like tool that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was cool and I started a little every time it made contact.

The coach compressed, pulled, pressed, measured, rechecked, mumbled something inaudible, pressed again and pinched my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he declared the number of millimetres he could measure.

I had no idea what the numbers represented, if it was positive or negative. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant entered the values into a record, and when all four values had been determined, the record rapidly computed my total fat percentage. My result was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

What prevented me from, or any other person, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from get to our feet and say what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently executed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or opposed the methods that the chief had enforced then I would not have received any fixtures, I'm sure about that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become in better shape, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you shouldn't be overweight, equally obvious you ought to be fit – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professional upgrade. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a embarrassing mass assessment and an strategy where the most important thing was to shed pounds and reduce your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that followed the same pattern. Weight check, body fat assessment, running tests, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a file, we all got data about our body metrics – pointers indicating if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five categories. An approved result was if you {belong