🔗 Share this article

I ventured to the lower level, dusted off the weighing machine I had shunned for many years and observed the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a umpire who was bulky and out of shape to being lean and fit. It had taken time, full of determination, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the start of a change that slowly introduced pressure, strain and unease around the tests that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a competent umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, appearing as a elite referee, that the mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, receiving less assignments and landing in the wilderness.

When the refereeing organisation was replaced during the summer of 2010, the head official enacted a set of modifications. During the opening phase, there was an strong concentration on body shape, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Vision tests might appear as a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses 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 umpires were found to be color deficient. 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 about the results of the vision test, nothing was revealed in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It indicated professionalism, attention to detail and a aim to get better.

When it came to body mass examinations and body fat, however, I largely sensed disgust, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the difficulty, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our annual course. We were in Ljubljana, Slovenia. On the opening day, the officials were divided into three groups of about 15. When my team had walked into the big, chilly assembly area where we were to meet, the supervisors instructed us to remove our clothes to our underclothes. We looked at each other, but no one reacted or ventured to speak.

We gradually removed our garments. The previous night, we had obtained explicit directions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to appear as a referee should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a long row, in just our underwear. We were Europe's best referees, elite athletes, role models, adults, caregivers, confident individuals with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit nervously while we were called forward in pairs. There Collina observed us from head to toe with an ice-cold stare. Quiet and watchful. We stepped on the balance singly. I sucked in my abdomen, adjusted my posture and ceased breathing as if it would make any difference. One of the trainers audibly declared: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I felt how Collina hesitated, looked at me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an grown person and obliged to stand here and be inspected and judged.

I descended from the weighing machine and it appeared as if I was standing in a fog. The same instructor advanced with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the device was called, was cool and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach pressed, pulled, applied pressure, measured, rechecked, uttered indistinct words, reapplied force and squeezed my skin and body fat. After each measurement area, he announced the measurement in mm he could gauge.

I had no clue what the values stood for, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It lasted approximately a minute. An helper recorded the values into a file, and when all four values had been calculated, the record quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My value was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

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

Why didn't we rise and say what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have simultaneously sealed my professional demise. If I had questioned or challenged the procedures that the chief had introduced then I would have been denied any matches, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also desired to become more athletic, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was evident you must not be overweight, just as clear you ought to 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 strategy where the primary focus was to shed pounds and lower your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings subsequently maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, body fat assessment, running tests, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, team activities and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got data about our body metrics – indicators indicating if we were going in the correct path (down) or incorrect path (up).

Body fat levels were categorised into five groups. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong