Account of a Umpire: 'The Chief Examined Our Half-Naked Bodies with an Ice-Cold Gaze'

I ventured to the lower level, dusted off the balance I had avoided for many years and looked at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had shed nearly 10kg. I had gone from being a official who was bulky and out of shape to being lean and conditioned. It had taken time, filled with patience, tough decisions and focus. But it was also the commencement of a change that progressively brought pressure, pressure and discomfort around the tests that the leadership had introduced.

You didn't just need to be a good umpire, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, presenting as a elite umpire, that the body mass and adipose levels were correct, otherwise you were in danger of being penalized, getting fewer matches and ending up in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure introduced a number of changes. During the first year, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, body mass assessments and fat percentage, and mandatory vision tests. Eyesight examinations might appear as a given practice, but it hadn't been before. At the courses they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to read small text at a specific range, but also more specific tests adapted for elite soccer officials.

Some umpires were identified as color deficient. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the gossip said, but nobody was certain – because regarding the results of the vision test, details were withheld in larger groups. For me, the vision test was a confidence boost. It demonstrated professionalism, attention to detail and a goal to enhance.

When it came to weighing assessments and fat percentage, however, I largely sensed disgust, frustration and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the manner of execution.

The initial occasion I was forced to endure the degrading process was in the autumn of 2010 at our yearly training. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the umpires were split into three groups of about 15. When my unit had walked into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to gather, the management directed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our clothes. The previous night, we had received clear instructions not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as empty as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as reduced adipose level as possible. And to look like a official should according to the standard.

There we remained in a extended line, in just our intimate apparel. We were Europe's best referees, professional competitors, role models, grown-ups, family providers, assertive characters with great integrity … but no one said anything. We hardly peered at each other, our gazes flickered a bit nervously while we were invited in pairs. There the chief observed us from completely with an chilling look. Mute and watchful. We stepped on the weighing machine singly. I contracted my abdomen, straightened my back and stopped inhaling as if it would have an effect. One of the trainers loudly announced: "The Swedish official, 96.2 kilograms." I sensed how Collina paused, looked at me and scanned my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this is undignified. I'm an mature individual and compelled to stand here and be examined and critiqued.

I alighted from the scale and it felt like I was in a daze. The identical trainer approached with a type of caliper, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he began to pinch me with on different parts of the body. The measuring tool, as the tool was called, was cold and I started a little every time it made contact.

The instructor compressed, drew, pressed, gauged, reassessed, spoke unclearly, pressed again and compressed my skin and adipose tissue. After each measurement area, he announced the metric reading he could gauge.

I had no understanding what the values signified, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An aide entered the numbers into a record, and when all readings had been calculated, the file quickly calculated my total fat percentage. My value was announced, for all to hear: "Eriksson, eighteen point seven percent."

Why did I not, or anyone else, say anything?

Why didn't we stand up and state what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had voiced my concerns I would have at the same time signed my professional demise. If I had questioned or challenged the procedures that the boss had enforced then I wouldn't have got any games, I'm certain of that.

Of course, I also desired to become more athletic, be lighter and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was obvious you ought not to be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you should be fit – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group required a standardization. But it was wrong to try to get there through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the primary focus was to lose weight and reduce your fat percentage.

Our twice-yearly trainings subsequently maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, endurance assessments, laws of the game examinations, analysis of decisions, collaborative exercises and then at the end all would be recapped. On a file, we all got data about our fitness statistics – arrows showing if we were going in the proper course (down) or incorrect path (up).

Adipose measurements were grouped into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong