🔗 Share this article

I went to the basement, cleaned the balance I had shunned for a long time and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had evolved from being a umpire who was overweight and unfit to being slender and well trained. It had taken time, full of persistence, difficult choices and commitments. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that progressively brought pressure, tension and disquiet around the tests that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a competent referee, it was also about emphasizing eating habits, looking like a premier referee, that the mass and body fat were correct, otherwise you risked being reprimanded, being allocated fewer games and finding yourself in the wilderness.

When the officiating body was replaced during the mid-2010 period, the leading figure brought in a series of reforms. During the opening phase, there was an extreme focus on body shape, body mass assessments and body fat, and compulsory eyesight exams. Optical checks might appear as a expected practice, but it hadn't been before. At the sessions they not only tested elementary factors like being able to decipher tiny letters at a certain distance, but also more specific tests designed for top-level match arbiters.

Some referees were found to be colour blind. Another proved to be partially sighted and was obliged to retire. At least that's what the rumours suggested, but no one knew for sure – because concerning the results of the vision test, no information was shared in larger groups. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It indicated professionalism, thoroughness and a aim to get better.

Regarding tests of weight and body fat, however, I primarily experienced revulsion, anger and humiliation. It wasn't the tests that were the problem, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was compelled to undergo the humiliating procedure was in the late 2010 period at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the officials were separated into three units of about 15. When my group had stepped into the spacious, cool assembly area where we were to assemble, the management instructed us to strip down to our underwear. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or attempted to object.

We gradually removed our attire. The prior evening, we had obtained explicit directions not to eat or drink 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 remained in a lengthy queue, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, professional competitors, exemplars, grown-ups, caregivers, strong personalities with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our eyes darted a bit nervously while we were invited two by two. There the boss examined us from completely with an ice-cold gaze. Silent and attentive. We stepped on the scale one by one. I sucked in my abdomen, adjusted my posture and stopped inhaling as if it would make any difference. One of the instructors loudly announced: "Eriksson from Sweden, 96.2kg." I perceived how the chief paused, observed me and scanned my almost bare body. I thought to myself that this lacks respect. I'm an mature individual and forced to stand here and be evaluated and assessed.

I descended from the balance and it appeared as if I was disoriented. The identical trainer came forward with a sort of clamp, a polygraph-like tool that he started to squeeze me with on various areas of the body. The measuring tool, as the instrument was called, was cold and I started a little every time it touched my body.

The trainer squeezed, tugged, applied pressure, quantified, reassessed, spoke unclearly, reapplied force and pinched my epidermis and body fat. After each test site, he announced the number of millimetres he could gauge.

I had no clue what the figures represented, if it was favorable or unfavorable. It required about a minute. An helper recorded the figures into a record, and when all measurements had been determined, the record quickly calculated my complete adipose level. My result was proclaimed, for all to hear: "Eriksson, 18.7%."

Why didn't I, 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 at the same time sealed my career's death sentence. If I had challenged or opposed the techniques that Collina had enforced then I would not have received any matches, I'm sure about that.

Of course, I also aimed to become more athletic, be lighter and achieve my objective, to become a top-tier official. It was obvious you shouldn't be heavy, just as clear you ought to be in shape – and certainly, maybe the whole officiating group needed a professionalisation. But it was improper to try to reach that level through a humiliating weigh-in and an agenda where the key objective was to lose weight and minimise your adipose level.

Our twice-yearly trainings subsequently maintained the same structure. Mass measurement, measurement of fat percentage, running tests, regulation quizzes, evaluation of rulings, collaborative exercises and then at the end everything would be summarised. On a report, we all got information about our physical profile – arrows showing if we were going in the right direction (down) or wrong direction (up).

Adipose measurements were categorised into five groups. An satisfactory reading was if you {belong