Account of a Umpire: 'The Chief Observed Our Nearly Nude Bodies with an Frigid Gaze'

I descended to the cellar, dusted off the balance I had avoided for a long time and glanced at the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a official who was heavy and untrained to being slender and conditioned. It had taken time, packed with determination, hard calls and focus. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that slowly introduced anxiety, pressure and discomfort around the tests that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a good referee, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a premier umpire, that the body mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you faced being penalized, being allocated fewer games and ending up in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was overhauled during the summer of 2010, the leading figure enacted a series of reforms. During the first year, there was an extreme focus on physical condition, body mass assessments and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Vision tests might seem like a standard practice, but it had not been before. At the courses they not only evaluated basic things like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, but also specialized examinations tailored to professional football referees.

Some referees were discovered as color deficient. Another was revealed as lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the whispers claimed, but no one knew for sure – because concerning the findings of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the optical check was a reassurance. It signalled professionalism, meticulousness and a aim to get better.

Regarding weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed disgust, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the opening day, the referees were separated into three units of about 15. When my unit had walked into the large, cold conference room where we were to assemble, the management urged us to remove our clothes to our underwear. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our garments. The previous night, we had received explicit directions not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as depleted as we could when we were to take the assessment. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to resemble a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, inspirations, mature individuals, caregivers, strong personalities with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We barely looked at each other, our gazes flickered a bit apprehensively while we were summoned as duos. There the boss scrutinized us from head to toe with an ice-cold stare. Silent and attentive. We mounted the weighing machine one by one. I sucked in my abdomen, stood erect and held my breath as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I perceived how the chief paused, glanced my way and scanned my nearly naked body. I mused that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and forced to be here and be inspected and critiqued.

I stepped off the scale and it appeared as if I was in a daze. The identical trainer advanced with a type of caliper, a device similar to a truth machine that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The caliper, as the tool was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer compressed, tugged, pressed, measured, measured again, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and compressed my epidermis and body fat. After each test site, he announced the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no clue what the figures represented, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It lasted approximately a minute. An assistant recorded the values into a file, and when all measurements had been established, the document quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My value was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, or somebody else, voice an opinion?

Why didn't we stand up and express what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have concurrently signed my career's death sentence. If I had challenged or resisted the techniques that the chief had enforced then I would not have received any matches, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also wanted to become in better shape, be lighter and attain my target, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you ought not to be overweight, similarly apparent you ought to be fit – and sure, maybe the whole officiating group demanded a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to achieve that through a degrading weight check and an agenda where the most important thing was to lose weight and lower your body fat.

Our twice-yearly trainings thereafter adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, team activities and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got data about our physical profile – arrows indicating if we were going in the right direction (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five tiers. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong