Journal of a Umpire: 'Collina Examined Our Partially Clothed Bodies with an Frigid Gaze'

I went to the basement, cleaned the weighing machine I had avoided for many years and looked at the display: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was heavy and unfit to being lean and well trained. It had demanded dedication, filled with determination, tough decisions and focus. But it was also the beginning of a shift that progressively brought pressure, tension and disquiet around the assessments that the authorities had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a competent official, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a elite official, that the mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, being allocated fewer games and ending up in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the 2010 summer season, Pierluigi Collina introduced a set of modifications. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, body mass assessments and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Eyesight examinations might sound like a standard practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only evaluated basic things like being able to decipher tiny letters at a specific range, but also specialized examinations designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were identified as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be blind in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip said, but no one knew for sure – because about the results of the optical assessment, nothing was revealed in extended assemblies. For me, the vision test was a reassurance. It signalled expertise, meticulousness and a desire to enhance.

Regarding weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, irritation and embarrassment. It wasn't the assessments that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The first time I was obliged to experience the embarrassing ritual was in the late 2010 period at our yearly training. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were divided into three units of about 15. When my unit had entered the big, chilly meeting hall where we were to assemble, the supervisors directed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or ventured to speak.

We slowly took off our clothes. The evening before, we had been given explicit directions not to have any nourishment in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about showing minimal weight as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to appear as a umpire should according to the paradigm.

There we remained in a long row, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, top sportsmen, inspirations, adults, caregivers, confident individuals with high principles … but everyone remained mute. We scarcely glanced at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were called forward as duos. There Collina scrutinized us from head to toe with an chilling gaze. Quiet and observant. We stepped onto the weighing machine one by one. I contracted my belly, stood erect and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers audibly declared: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I felt how Collina stopped, looked at me and scanned my partially unclothed body. I mused that this is undignified. I'm an adult and obliged to remain here and be inspected and critiqued.

I stepped off the scale and it seemed like I was standing in a fog. The same instructor came forward with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he started to squeeze me with on assorted regions of the body. The caliper, as the instrument was called, was cool and I started a little every time it made contact.

The coach squeezed, drew, pressed, quantified, measured again, uttered indistinct words, squeezed once more and pinched my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he declared the metric reading he could assess.

I had no understanding what the figures signified, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An assistant recorded the values into a document, and when all readings had been established, the document quickly calculated my overall body fat. My result was declared, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

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

What stopped us from rise and state what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently signed my career's death sentence. If I had questioned or opposed the methods that the chief had implemented then I would not have received any matches, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also aimed to become in better shape, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was evident you must not be above the ideal weight, similarly apparent you must be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a standardization. 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 minimise your fat percentage.

Our biannual sessions after that followed the same pattern. Weight check, adipose evaluation, fitness exams, rule tests, analysis of decisions, group work and then at the end all would be recapped. 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 tiers. An approved result was if you {belong