🔗 Share this article

I ventured to the lower level, dusted off the weighing machine I had evaded for many years and glanced at the readout: 99.2kg. Throughout the previous eight years, I had lost nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a referee who was overweight and untrained to being lean and well trained. It had taken time, full of determination, difficult choices and focus. But it was also the start of a transformation that progressively brought stress, tension and unease around the examinations that the leadership had enforced.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about prioritising diet, presenting as a top-level official, that the mass and body fat were right, otherwise you faced being penalized, receiving less assignments and ending up in the sidelines.

When the regulatory group was restructured during the 2010 summer season, the head official brought in a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, body mass assessments and adipose tissue, and mandatory vision tests. Optical checks might appear as a expected practice, but it had not been before. At the training programs they not only evaluated fundamental aspects like being able to see fine print at a particular length, but also specialized examinations adapted for top-level match arbiters.

Some umpires were discovered as unable to distinguish certain hues. Another turned out to be lacking vision in one eye and was compelled to resign. At least that's what the gossip said, but everyone was unsure – because concerning the findings of the vision test, details were withheld in big gatherings. For me, the vision test was a comfort. It demonstrated competence, meticulousness and a aim to enhance.

When it came to tests of weight and fat percentage, however, I mostly felt revulsion, irritation and degradation. It wasn't the examinations that were the problem, but the method of implementation.

The initial occasion I was obliged to experience the humiliating procedure was in the autumn of 2010 at our regular session. We were in a European city. On the initial session, the referees were separated into three teams of about 15. When my unit had stepped into the spacious, cool meeting hall where we were to assemble, the management instructed us to undress to our underwear. We looked at each other, but everyone remained silent or ventured to speak.

We carefully shed our garments. The previous night, we had received specific orders not to consume food or beverages in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to undergo the test. It was about registering the lowest mass as possible, and having as low a fat percentage as possible. And to appear as a referee should according to the paradigm.

There we stood in a extended line, in just our underclothes. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, parents, strong personalities 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 the chief scrutinized us from completely with an frigid gaze. Silent and watchful. We mounted the scale singly. I pulled in my belly, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the coaches loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I sensed how Collina hesitated, glanced my way and scanned my almost bare body. I reflected that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and obliged to remain here and be evaluated and judged.

I alighted from the balance and it felt like I was disoriented. The identical trainer came forward with a kind of pliers, a instrument resembling a lie detector that he commenced pressing me with on different parts of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I flinched a little every time it made contact.

The coach compressed, drew, pressed, gauged, reassessed, spoke unclearly, pressed again and squeezed my epidermis and body fat. After each test site, he announced the measurement in mm he could gauge.

I had no idea what the numbers represented, if it was good or bad. It took maybe just over a minute. An helper recorded the figures into a document, and when all measurements had been established, the file rapidly computed my overall body fat. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why didn't I, or any other person, voice an opinion?

Why didn't we get to our feet and say what all were thinking: that it was demeaning. If I had raised my voice I would have simultaneously sealed my professional demise. If I had questioned or challenged the methods that the boss had enforced then I would have been denied any fixtures, I'm certain of that.

Naturally, I also wanted to become more athletic, weigh less and reach my goal, to become a world-class referee. It was evident you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you must be fit – and admittedly, maybe the entire referee corps demanded a standardization. But it was wrong to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an agenda where the key objective was to reduce mass and lower your body fat.

Our two annual courses thereafter adhered to the same routine. Mass measurement, adipose evaluation, running tests, regulation quizzes, reviews of interpretations, group work and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a document, we all got data about our physical profile – indicators pointing if we were going in the correct path (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were grouped into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong