Diary of a Official: 'The Chief Examined Our Nearly Nude Bodies with an Frigid Gaze'

I descended to the cellar, wiped the scales I had shunned for many years and observed the screen: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a official who was overweight and unfit to being lean and conditioned. It had demanded dedication, filled with determination, tough decisions and commitments. But it was also the commencement of a change that progressively brought pressure, strain and discomfort around the tests that the top management had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled official, it was also about focusing on nutrition, presenting as a elite umpire, that the weight and fat percentages were correct, otherwise you faced being disciplined, getting fewer matches and ending up in the sidelines.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the mid-2010 period, the head official brought in a series of reforms. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on physique, weigh-ins and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might appear as a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the courses they not only tested fundamental aspects like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were discovered as colour blind. Another proved to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip suggested, but nobody was certain – because concerning the outcomes of the vision test, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a comfort. It demonstrated expertise, attention to detail and a aim to enhance.

Regarding weighing assessments and body fat, however, I largely sensed aversion, anger and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the initial session, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the large, cold meeting hall where we were to meet, the leadership instructed us to strip down to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We carefully shed our garments. The previous night, we had obtained clear instructions not to eat or drink 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 reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a referee should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, role models, adults, family providers, strong personalities with high principles … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our looks shifted a bit anxiously while we were summoned two by two. There Collina observed us from head to toe with an chilling look. Mute and watchful. We stepped on the weighing machine individually. I pulled in my stomach, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the coaches audibly declared: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I sensed how Collina paused, glanced my way and surveyed my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and forced to remain here and be examined and assessed.

I stepped off the weighing machine and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer approached with a sort of clamp, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was cool and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer squeezed, pulled, forced, gauged, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and compressed my skin and fatty deposits. After each test site, he called out the metric reading he could measure.

I had no clue what the numbers represented, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant recorded the values into a document, and when all readings had been calculated, the file rapidly computed my overall body fat. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

What stopped us from stand up and say what all were thinking: that it was degrading. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time executed my professional demise. If I had challenged or challenged the methods that Collina had enforced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also desired to become in better shape, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a elite arbiter. It was obvious you ought not to be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you ought to be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the primary focus was to reduce mass and minimise your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings after that maintained the same structure. Weight check, adipose evaluation, fitness exams, rule tests, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. On a file, we all got facts about our physical profile – indicators pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five groups. An approved result was if you {belong