🔗 Share this article

I went to the cellar, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for a long time and observed the display: 99.2kg. Over the past eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a umpire who was overweight and untrained to being light and well trained. It had demanded dedication, filled with determination, hard calls and priorities. But it was also the beginning of a change that slowly introduced anxiety, strain and unease around the tests that the top management had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent official, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a elite referee, that the weight and body fat were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being disciplined, getting fewer matches and landing in the cold.

When the refereeing organisation was overhauled during the mid-2010 period, Pierluigi Collina introduced a number of changes. During the first year, there was an intense emphasis on physical condition, body mass assessments and body fat, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might sound like a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the sessions they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also more specific tests tailored to top-level match arbiters.

Some officials were identified as colour blind. Another proved to be lacking vision in one eye and was forced to quit. At least that's what the gossip said, but everyone was unsure – because about the outcomes of the optical assessment, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the optical check was a comfort. It signalled professionalism, attention to detail and a aim to enhance.

Concerning weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I primarily experienced aversion, frustration and embarrassment. It wasn't the tests that were the issue, but the way they were conducted.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the first morning, the referees were divided into three teams of about 15. When my unit had entered the large, cold assembly area where we were to gather, the leadership 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 evening before, we had been given specific orders not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as depleted 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 appear as a referee should according to the standard.

There we remained in a long row, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, role models, adults, family providers, assertive characters with high principles … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our eyes darted a bit apprehensively while we were invited as duos. There the chief observed us from top to bottom with an frigid stare. Silent and observant. We stepped onto the weighing machine singly. I contracted my belly, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would change the outcome. One of the trainers clearly stated: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I felt how the chief paused, glanced my way and scanned my partially unclothed body. I mused that this is not worthy. I'm an mature individual and compelled to stand here and be inspected and critiqued.

I descended from the scale and it felt like I was standing in a fog. The equivalent coach came forward with a kind of pliers, 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 cool and I flinched a little every time it touched my body.

The coach squeezed, drew, forced, gauged, reassessed, uttered indistinct words, pressed again and compressed my dermis and adipose tissue. After each assessment point, he announced the number of millimetres he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the numbers stood for, if it was good or bad. It lasted approximately a minute. An aide entered the numbers into a document, and when all measurements had been calculated, the file quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why did I not, or any other person, voice an opinion?

What stopped us from stand up and say what each person felt: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have at the same time sealed my professional demise. If I had challenged or opposed the methods that the chief had enforced then I would not have received any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also desired to become in better shape, weigh less and attain my target, to become a top-tier official. It was clear you ought not to be heavy, equally obvious you ought to be conditioned – and admittedly, maybe the entire referee corps needed 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 shed pounds and lower your adipose level.

Our two annual courses thereafter adhered to the same routine. Weight check, measurement of fat percentage, fitness exams, laws of the game examinations, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end a summary was provided. On a document, we all got information about our physical profile – pointers showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

Adipose measurements were classified into five categories. An acceptable outcome was if you {belong