Account of a Official: 'The Boss Scrutinized Our Partially Clothed Bodies with an Chilling Gaze'

I ventured to the lower level, cleaned the weighing machine I had avoided for a long time and looked at the screen: 99.2kg. During the last eight years, I had dropped nearly 10kg. I had transformed from being a official who was overweight and unfit to being slender and well trained. It had demanded dedication, filled with patience, tough decisions and priorities. But it was also the commencement of a transformation that progressively brought pressure, pressure and unease around the assessments that the authorities had implemented.

You didn't just need to be a skilled umpire, it was also about focusing on nutrition, appearing as a top-level referee, that the weight and body fat were appropriate, otherwise you faced being penalized, getting fewer matches and landing in the wilderness.

When the regulatory group was replaced during the summer of 2010, the head official brought in a number of changes. During the initial period, there was an strong concentration on physical condition, weigh-ins and fat percentage, and required optical assessments. Vision tests might sound like a given practice, but it wasn't previously before. At the training programs they not only evaluated basic things like being able to see fine print at a certain distance, but also targeted assessments designed for professional football referees.

Some umpires were identified as color deficient. Another turned out to be partially sighted and was forced to quit. At least that's what the rumours said, but no one knew for sure – because about the results of the eyesight exam, no information was shared in big gatherings. For me, the eyesight exam was a reassurance. It indicated competence, thoroughness and a goal to improve.

When it came to body mass examinations and body fat, however, I largely sensed aversion, anger and embarrassment. It wasn't the assessments that were the difficulty, but the way they were conducted.

The opening instance I was obliged to experience the humiliating procedure was in the fall of 2010 at our regular session. We were in the Slovenian capital. On the initial session, the umpires were divided into three teams of about 15. When my group had entered the large, cold meeting hall where we were to assemble, the management directed us to undress to our intimate apparel. We exchanged glances, but nobody responded or attempted to object.

We slowly took off our attire. The prior evening, we had obtained specific orders not to eat or drink in the morning but to be as devoid as we could when we were to participate in the examination. It was about weighing as little as possible, and having as minimal body fat as possible. And to resemble a official should according to the model.

There we were positioned in a extended line, in just our underwear. We were the continent's top officials, elite athletes, role models, grown-ups, caregivers, confident individuals with strong ethics … but no one said anything. We barely looked at each other, our looks shifted a bit apprehensively while we were invited as duos. There the boss examined us from top to bottom with an frigid stare. Silent and watchful. We stepped on the weighing machine singly. I sucked in my abdomen, stood erect and ceased breathing as if it would have an effect. One of the coaches loudly announced: "Eriksson, Sweden, 96.2 kilos." I perceived how the chief stopped, glanced my way and scanned my partially unclothed body. I thought to myself that this is not worthy. I'm an grown person and forced to remain here and be inspected and assessed.

I alighted from the scale and it appeared as if I was standing in a fog. The identical trainer approached with a sort of clamp, a device similar to a truth machine that he commenced pressing me with on assorted regions of the body. The pinching instrument, as the instrument was called, was chilly and I started a little every time it pressed against me.

The coach squeezed, pulled, pressed, measured, measured again, uttered indistinct words, squeezed once more and compressed my skin and fatty deposits. After each measurement area, he called out the metric reading he could assess.

I had no clue what the figures stood for, if it was good or bad. It required about a minute. An helper recorded the numbers into a document, and when all readings had been established, the file rapidly computed my complete adipose level. My reading was declared, for all to hear: "The official, 18.7 percent."

Why did I not, or somebody else, speak up?

What stopped us from rise and express what all were thinking: that it was humiliating. If I had spoken out I would have concurrently sealed my end of my officiating path. If I had questioned or challenged the techniques that Collina had implemented then I would have been denied any games, I'm convinced of that.

Naturally, I also desired to become in better shape, weigh less and achieve my objective, to become a elite arbiter. It was clear you shouldn't be above the ideal weight, equally obvious you should be in shape – and admittedly, maybe the whole officiating group required a professional upgrade. But it was incorrect to try to achieve that through a embarrassing mass assessment and an agenda where the most important thing was to lose weight and lower your adipose level.

Our two annual courses after that followed the same pattern. Weigh-in, body fat assessment, 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 data about our physical profile – indicators pointing if we were going in the proper course (down) or improper course (up).

Body fat levels were classified into five tiers. An approved result was if you {belong